The storm is big and round, restless, its undersides tinged with green. It’s implacable, and its movement is invisible but obvious, as downtown gets rapidly darker. Holly, four, is pounding her soft fists on anything available. Her mouth is red and angry; she’s mad and stubborn, and the madder she gets the harder she makes her face, beet-clenched under a wispy brown bob.

The storm is ready to bite. In the gnash of its thunder there’s a sharp clean white edge, the same fluorescent that stains its belly. Its teeth are ready, yet Holly is hungry, and the storm is full.