The siren wailed too late. By the time I reached the house, the sky had already turned black. Debris spun like leaves in a hurricane. I saw Rachel’s car flipped near the ditch—Maya was inside, screaming. Fiona’s room was gone, just splinters and sky. But the storm cellar door was still shut. I could’ve gone to her. I should’ve.

Instead, I dug Rachel and Maya out. Her hand was broken, his leg bleeding, but they were alive. I kept shouting Fiona’s name, but the wind swallowed it. When the calm came, I found her under the collapsed porch. Not crushed—just still. Like she’d been waiting.

Now, three days later, Rachel sits across from me at the kitchen table, eyes hollow. She hasn’t cried. She hasn’t said much at all. But when I mention the funeral, she whispers, 'You didn’t see the tape, did you?'