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Squall Line
Episode 3 of 3 of A Chance of Dog by Erica Holloway · free to read
A hundred and forty seconds was how long it took to tell everyone I could reach that a line of storms was coming, and what to do about it.
I had ninety.
By Sunday afternoon the models agreed with each other, which happened about as often as my clicker worked. A squall line would cross our whole viewing area between eleven at night and one in the morning, while most people were asleep.
We had no late news on Sundays, and in twenty years Marty had never allowed a cut-in. Six-forty was my only window.
Wind at noon was weather.
Wind at midnight was a tree on a bedroom.
The man from the company arrived at five in a fleece vest, with the smiling cloud on his laptop. Marty seated him next to Jodie, who did not look up.
I stopped at the hallway frames. Both were crooked. I straightened mine.
Then I found Reggie at camera two.
“When Marty says kill the wall lights,” I said, “don’t.”
Reggie looked at Senator in his chair. Then he looked at the floor under my lights.
“You know what he’ll do,” Reggie said.
“I knew the first night.”
“Marty’s rule is follow the dog.”
“I know Marty’s rule. That’s why I’m asking you.”
Reggie took his headset off, which he did about once a year. “Thirty-one years,” he said. “Nobody has ever asked me to light a dog.”
“It’s my call. If it goes wrong, it’s mine.”
He put the headset back on. He didn’t say yes.
Reggie only said things out loud when they were no.
At 6:40, Jodie said, “Senator in ten.”
I stood on my mark with the radar behind me. On the monitor, the line was still three hundred miles west, a thin red stripe.
Marty stood beside Senator’s chair in a headset, holding two cards. He had moved Senator Says to the top, for the company.
“Kill the wall,” he said.
The wall stayed lit.
Marty held up Sunny. He held up Stormy. Senator lifted his head, looked past both cards, and looked across twelve feet of studio at the warmest square of floor in the building.
Then he walked down his ramp. Slowly. Old hips. He did not sniff either card.
“Follow the dog,” Jodie said quietly. I couldn’t tell if she was reading the rule or giving the order.
Reggie followed the dog. Senator crossed the studio, lay down across my shoes, and sighed. On the monitor there was Senator, and me, and behind us both, the red stripe.
Marty lowered the cards and said nothing.
“This is Senator’s time,” I said. “He’s spending it with me, so I’ll be quick and I’ll be clear.
“Tonight between eleven and one, a line of strong storms will cross our whole area, west to east. The main threat is wind. Gusts up to seventy miles an hour, strong enough to bring down trees and power lines. A brief tornado is possible inside the line. It will get here while most of you are asleep.
“So before bed, do three things. Bring in anything that can blow around. Charge your phone and turn on your emergency alerts, loud enough to wake you. Pick your room now: lowest floor, middle of the house, away from windows.
“If you have a neighbor who lives alone, knock on their door tonight. Tell them what I told you.”
That took fifty seconds. I spent fifteen more walking the radar: where the line was now, where it would be at ten, where it would be at midnight.
Nobody counted in my ear.
With fifteen of his seconds left, because a deal was a deal, I read the sponsor. “This segment is brought to you by Bark and Bushel. Bring your dogs inside tonight.”
Then I did my own ninety, hour by hour, until the line was gone.
Ninety and ninety made a hundred and eighty. Three minutes. I had done that math before.
When the red light went off, Marty didn’t yell. He knelt on the warm floor next to Senator, which at seventy-eight was a commitment.
“You lit my dog,” he said.
“I did.”
“I said follow him.” Marty scratched Senator’s ear. “I guess I meant everybody.”
The man in the fleece vest closed his laptop and left before the sports. At eleven, for the first time in twenty years, Marty let me cut in.
The line came through at 11:52. The gust at the airport was sixty-eight. Trees came down all over the north side and about nine thousand homes lost power. Nobody was hurt.
On Monday, one envelope in Senator’s bin had a drawing of a tree on a garage.
Dear Senator, it said. Please thank your meteorologist. We were in the hallway.
They spelled meteorologist right. That was more than the internet had managed.
Marty put the next rundown on my desk himself. Weather, three minutes. Senator, wherever he wants. He had also forwarded his reply to the company. The subject line said, No thank you.
“What about Senator Says?” I said.
“I retired it,” Marty said. “He already said.”
The tungsten lights were staying, in writing.
Reggie stopped by my desk.
“You’re ten,” he said. “Woman walks into a dog’s live shot.”
I straightened both frames.