Page 137 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

Panic claws at the edges of my mind, threatening to unravel me. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing a breath in and out, trying to tether my thoughts. He could be anything right now.

And that scares me more than the storm ever could.

My gut clenches as my imagination conjures the worst possibilities. A dragonfly—fragile, gossamer-winged, carried away, battered and broken. A Hercules beetle—too slow, too stubborn, too easy to crush. I force my eyes open, the world swimming with shadows and doubt.

I can’t see him. I can’t see him anywhere.

“Come on, baby,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Where are you?”

The wind doesn’t answer. It just pulls and pushes, the storm gathering strength, clouds churning overhead. The sky’s sickly green tint deepens, making everything feel off-kilter, like reality’s slipping sideways.

He’s out here. He has to be.

I close my eyes, forcing a steady breath. I stretch out my gift—the world fading to a hush, the wind dulling to a low roar as I reach beyond the noise, beyond my fear.

At first, there’s nothing. Just the chaotic churn of grass and dirt, the air thick with ozone. Field mice scurry, snakes slither—a scatter of brownish dots on my mind’s map.

Then, I see it.

A tiny, quivering bubble of life.

Fragile, but focused.

My stomach twists. Mishka. He’s shifted into something small, almost too small to catch with my gift. But it’s him. A flicker of blue—the color of his eyes—and that unmistakable pulse of frustration.

It’s not wild panic. No, this is the tense, coiled determination of a boy who handles stress better than most adults. He’s out there, holding himself together. Trying to be brave. Trying to be strong. Trying to be the responsible pet owner we’ve drilled into him—a child who would rather break than disappoint us.

“Dammit, kid,” I whisper, my voice shaking. He could be anything—a rabbit, a lizard—something so easy to lose, so simple to crush.

I stretch my awareness further, desperate, and there—just a few feet away—I catch another presence. Brighter. Simpler. Sumi.

His little puppy mind is a ball of pure, unfiltered joy. He’s loving this. The wind, the grass, the freedom. His emotions tumble through me—excitement, glee, the thrill of being chased.

“Sumi,” I mutter, clenching my fists. “You adorable little idiot.”

The wind shoves at me, my soaked dress snapping against my legs, my hair a wild tangle. Overhead, the sky churns into a queasy green, clouds roiling like a pot ready to boil over.

I scan the field, my gaze catching on a half-collapsed outbuilding to the right. The roof sags, old stones slick with moss. Bright green plants cluster at its base—too lush for this dry stretch of field.

Water. A spring or runoff. Maybe an old springhouse, maybe a smokehouse. Whatever it was, it’s long abandoned, but it’s shelter of a sort. They could be headed there.

The thought of water sends a fresh jolt of panic through me. Mishka, in whatever tiny form he’s taken, could get tangled up, could drown, could—

I shove the thought away, grit my teeth, and push forward. The mud sucks at my feet, the grass clings to my shins like it’s trying to hold me back. The wind picks up again, threading a low, eerie howl through the air, like the storm itself is whispering secrets I don’t want to hear.

Just a little further. The storm can wait. The fear can wait. My son cannot.

I brush damp hair from my eyes, squinting through the gathering rain. The world is a blur of motion—the grass bowing, the wind wrapping around me like a child testing its strength.

Then I see it.

The grass ahead stirs differently—a tight, spinning motion. The wind gathers itself, twisting into a narrow, swirling column. Leaves and debris spiral upward in its dizzying dance, glinting like dark confetti.

My breath catches. The edges of the whirlwind shimmer and blur, its suction making my skin prickle. It tugs at my skirt, pulls at my hair, like it’s inviting me to join the dance.

For a heartbeat, I’m almost charmed by it. The way it twirls and sways feels surreal, like something out of a dream or a storybook. Slowly, I reach out a hand, feeling the wind’s magnetic pull against my fingers.

I laugh—a breathless, shaky sound. The air crackles with wild energy, almost teasing, as if the storm is alive and knows something I don’t.

---