Chapter 3

Forget it. Buy supplies first. At worst, it would all turn out to be a false alarm.

I dragged my suitcase across the terminal and rushed into the Hudson News convenience store in the center of the airport.

There was still half a shelf of bottled water, though airport prices were absurd—eight dollars a bottle.

I was usually the kind of person who clipped digital coupons just to buy discounted groceries at Publix.

But the moment I remembered Creed's words—"This place is about to be wiped off the map"—I started buying everything in sight.

Cases of bottled water. Several boxes of energy bars. High-calorie dark chocolate. Emergency blankets. Two fully charged power banks. I dumped everything onto the counter.

"All of it?" The cashier's eyes widened. "That's over three hundred dollars."

"Yes! All of it! Ring me up!"

I pulled out my phone and tapped it against the card reader.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Each payment made my heart ache.

That was all the money I'd budgeted for Lily's swimming lessons this semester.

As I desperately stuffed everything into my suitcase, I cursed myself internally: if the hurricane doesn't come today, you are officially the biggest idiot in Miami.

The passengers behind me snickered openly.

A white businessman in a tailored suit, dragging a golf bag behind him, scoffed.

"Preparing for the end of the world? You've been spending too much time on climate conspiracy theories on Facebook."

Heat rushed to my face, but I swallowed my embarrassment and turned around.

"Sir, there may be extremely severe weather coming. You should probably buy some water and food too, just in case."

The line erupted in laughter.

"Lady, it's eighty-five degrees outside and the sun is blazing. You've lost your mind!"

I opened my mouth, then swallowed the rest of my explanation.

Who in their right mind could look at a clear sky and declare the apocalypse?

Even if a former legend of meteorology had been screaming warnings outside, not a single person believed him.

I yanked my suitcase shut and hurried toward the deepest part of the terminal without looking back.

My instincts as an architect kicked in. I headed straight for a large family restroom in the lower-level arrivals area.

It was located inside the building's structural core, bordered by reinforced shear walls on two sides and completely windowless.

A perfect shelter.

Just as I turned the corner, my phone lit up.

An iMessage from Mireille. Attached was a selfie of her sitting in first class with a champagne glass in her hand.

[Thanks for your cowardice, Coraline. By the way, remember to clear those embarrassing doodles off your desk tomorrow.]

I bit down hard on my lip and called her immediately.

She answered, and before she could say a word, I shouted, "Mireille, you can still get off the plane! A meteorologist personally warned me! He's never been wrong in his entire—"

"Are you done yet, Coraline?" A sharp, mocking laugh came through the phone.

"You're wasted here. You should go write disaster-movie scripts in Hollywood. No one would believe an excuse this ridiculous—not even the security guard downstairs."

She paused. "Once I sign the Chicago contract, you can hide in a corner and cry all by yourself."

Click. She hung up.

I stood outside the enclosed restroom, gripping my phone so tightly my fingers hurt.

Honestly, if our positions were reversed, I probably wouldn't believe me either.

I suddenly thought about the chaos of the past three years.

As a single mother struggling to survive at one of the top architecture firms in the industry, I hadn't dared take even a single sick day.

Once, Lily had a fever of 104 degrees. I'd held her in one arm in the emergency room at midnight while editing CAD drawings on my iPad with the other.

The next morning, I'd still put on a full face of makeup and gone to present to the client.

I couldn't lose this job. No one else was going to secure Lily's future for me.

And yet here I was, potentially destroying my career over a hurricane that probably didn't even exist.

What would Mr. Sterling do when he found out I hadn't boarded the plane and was instead hiding in an airport restroom acting like a lunatic?

If Mireille landed the client, I'd be packing up my desk tomorrow. My hands trembled uncontrollably. But I couldn't gamble with my life.

I took a deep breath, pushed open the heavy security door, and stepped inside.

Click. The metal lock slid into place.

I sank to the floor and forced myself to calmly take stock of my supplies.

Bottled water stacked in one corner. Food sorted by calorie count. Flashlight tested and ready.

When I finished, I slumped beside the baby-changing station, the back of my shirt soaked through with cold sweat.

If the hurricane didn't come, I'd not only be unemployed tomorrow, I'd have to haul several hundred dollars' worth of useless supplies back to my apartment myself. Lily's swimming lessons would be gone too.

I was insane.

Faintly, I heard the familiar airport announcement outside.

"Flight AA241 to Chicago. All passengers have boarded. The cabin doors are now closed."

I sat on the cold floor, listening to the sounds outside.

Rolling suitcases. Laughter. Footsteps. Everything was perfectly normal. So normal it was driving me crazy.

Mireille's cutting voice kept replaying in my head.

"Once I sign that Chicago contract, you can hide in a corner and cry."

I covered my face and trembled.

I started seriously wondering whether years of stress had finally pushed me into some kind of psychotic episode or hallucination.

Was the rambling prediction of a heat-stricken old man, plus a prank-like countdown note, really enough to make me give up my only chance at a promotion and hide in this cramped restroom?

I grabbed my phone and refreshed the NOAA weather app again with shaking hands.

Still clear skies. No weather warnings.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Fine. Let this be the price of peace. Let this be the day I finally snapped and took half a day off. Let this be—

"BZZZT!"

A sharp, muffled electronic blast suddenly cut through the soft jazz playing outside.

The next second, the bright light beyond the crack under the door went out.

In its place, blinding red emergency lights began flashing wildly.

A shrill alarm tore through the entire terminal like an air-raid siren.

Every drop of blood in my body seemed to turn to ice.

Was the hurricane really here?