Storm Born Read Online Free Page A

when the worst of the Centennial hit.  
    Hearing so many anguished cries broke my heart. I wanted to do something, but I would just get in the way. I didn’t know CPR, stood barely over five feet tall, tripped over my own feet more often than not, and didn’t know the first thing about search-and-rescue. The last thing I needed was to get yelled at because I moved something the wrong way and hurt someone. Right now, my priority was getting home. Once that was over, I could focus on helping others.  
    Floating in the water on my right was half of a snapped wooden sign. I grabbed it and held it up. The board was missing both its ends, but I read the letters –EAFOOD BA– perfectly.  
    I recognized the sign for The Seafood Bar, a place my best friend would take me to for special occasions.  
    The Seafood Bar was in West Palm. At least a thirty minute drive from where I lived.  
    How the hell had I gotten into another city?  
    Images flashed across my mind. Water circling my legs. Drowning in a current. The hard, cold road. The Stormkind–  
    The sign slipped from my fingers and splashed into the water. Dizziness swam through my head again. I closed my eyes and breathed through it. I couldn’t think about how I’d gotten so far away. The hundreds of questions and barely restrained trauma were eating at my brain, but I wouldn’t let myself be devoured.  
    Not yet, anyway.  
    Gathering the last of my composure, I started walking again. Lantana was south of West Palm, so that’s the direction I went. It would probably take close to four hours to walk home, but I would make it.  
    I forgot my ordeal as I looked around, witnessing rescues and hearing shouts for help. After an hour of walking, the water on the street grew shallower. My sneakers squished against the concrete, plastic rubbing against my skin above my ankle socks.  
    So I was going to get blisters and soggy feet. Great.  
    Still, I kept walking. I wanted to ask someone from the SPU for a ride home, but there was no way I would bother them when they were working so hard to rescue people who actually needed help. I was just lost.  
    But so were thousands… maybe millions of other people.  
    When I found Olive Avenue, I knew I would make it home. From here it was just a straight walk down the highway to Lantana. From there, I’d orient myself.  
    The further I went, the more shelters I noticed. They weren’t much– military grade tents propped up and guarded by police and SPU volunteers. Emergency vehicles led the homeless and injured to seek food and medical help.  
    The smell of cooking food drifted over the air, and my stomach growled violently. I winced and pressed my hand over my middle. I had no idea what time it was, but hours must have passed since my last meal. I needed to find something to eat, and soon.  
    I looked at the dozens of dark green tents lining the highway, amazed and grateful that a tent city had been set up so quickly. I mean, the storm only happened yesterday. Tent cities like this took a while to set up, didn’t they?  
    I guess it didn’t really matter. People were getting help, and that was the important thing. The SPU was very good at corralling volunteers and organizing aid. Climatologists and meteorologists had predicted that this would be the year of the Centennial almost a decade ago, and the SPU had been training ever since. Everyone knew the gravity of the situation, and had prepared as best as they could.  
    My eyes skittered forward, and I knew that all the preparation hadn’t been enough.  
    By the front entrance of the tent city was a series massive wooden boards. Every inch of them was covered in papers and photographs. The Missing Boards.  
    Survivors huddled in front of the boards, stapling new photographs or sketches of loved ones to the wood, or holding each other for comfort. Quiet sobs and unending tears streaked their faces. My heart ached, and I wondered if I should stop at the boards. If I