4. Wade

Chapter four

Wade

T he ranger station's coffee maker sputtered and wheezed like it was on its last legs. I'd been saying that for three years, but somehow, the ancient thing kept producing a liquid that was almost, but not quite, coffee. The brew matched the station itself—functional but rather worn around the edges like the maps curling on the walls and the scarred wooden counter where we logged our daily reports.

I reached for my usual mug, the one with the crack running through the park service logo, and tried to focus on the mundane—anything to keep my mind off green eyes and vintage cameras.

"There he is!" Tom's booming voice shattered my careful silence. He was one of our senior rangers, with sun-weathered skin and perpetually windblown gray hair. "Thought you might skip the morning briefing, what with that storm rolling in."

"When have I ever skipped a briefing?" The words came out more defensive than I intended.

"Fair point." Tom raised his hands in mock surrender. "Though Sarah from Little Blue Bean said—"

"Don't." I poured my coffee more forcefully than necessary, liquid splashing over the rim. "Whatever Sarah said, just... don't."

"Alright, alright." Tom's eyes shone, reflecting the fluorescent light above us. "But you might want to know she's got a fresh batch of those cranberry scones you pretend not to like."

Maya burst through the door, bringing with her the sharp scent of approaching rain. Our youngest ranger had leaves in her dark curls and mud on her boots. "You guys need to see this radar. Hurricane Olivia's remnants are picking up speed again and moving faster than predicted."

We gathered around the weather station's monitors, where angry red blooms spread across the screen. Maya pulled up a second display showing the system's track from the Gulf Coast. "Look at this—made landfall near New Orleans as a Category Three, spent two days drifting up through Tennessee, and now it's tapping into our unseasonably warm lake water."

Her finger traced the storm's path. "The National Weather Service is saying the remnant low is actually strengthening. They're predicting fifteen-foot waves by tomorrow afternoon."

"Lake Michigan in September isn't supposed to still be seventy-five degrees." Tom studied the surface temperature readings. "No wonder this thing's getting a second wind."

I leaned closer to the screen, noting the tight pressure gradients. Some of the wind projections topped sixty miles per hour—not hurricane force anymore, but strong enough to cause severe damage, especially with the ground still damp from a wet summer.

"Look at the wind patterns." I traced the spiral formation with my finger, memories surfacing unbidden. We'd had similar conditions the night of the Chicago fire when the wind had turned the warehouse into an inferno faster than anyone could have predicted. When—

"Wade?" Maya's voice pulled me back. "What do you think about the north trail?"

I forced myself to focus on the present. I turned my attention to a map spread across our briefing table. "Close it. That ridge gets dangerous in high winds, and the soil's already saturated from last week's rain."

"I'll handle it." Tom started to reach for his jacket.

"No." I drained my coffee, grateful for something concrete to do. "I need to check the storm shelter anyway. I'll close the trail on my way."

Maya frowned at the radar. "The old shelter by Miller's Point? Think we'll need it?"

"Better safe than sorry." I grabbed my gear, hyperaware of how my shirt rubbed against my scarred skin. "Have maintenance check the generator. If we lose power—"

"Already on it, Boss." Calling me Boss was Maya's gentle joke. I had seniority but had turned down the official supervisor position three times. "Oh, and the message board at the visitor center needs updating. Some blogger wants to do a photo series—"

My hand froze on the doorknob. "I'll deal with that later."

Outside, a stiff breeze whipped through the pines. The air tasted like tin, sharp and metallic. My boots crunched on the gravel as I made my way to my truck, thoughts straying back to the morning's swim and the way my peace had shattered with a camera click.

The north trail had emptied out ahead of me. We'd officially passed the end of tourist season, and the weather forecast chased the stragglers away. Yellow warning tape fluttered from the trail markers I placed.

The old storm shelter hunched against a hillside, its concrete face softened by decades of moss and lichen growth. Inside, the air hung thick with memories and mildew. My flashlight beam caught the faded murals—waves frozen mid-crash and storm clouds painted by hands long gone.

Someone had loved this place once and had seen beauty worth capturing, even in a utilitarian bunker. On my good days, I wished I had an optimistic mindset like that.

Tom had found me here three years ago, running my fingers over brushstrokes that hadn't entirely surrendered to time and dampness.

"Ah," he'd said, setting down his thermos. The coffee smell cut through the shelter's musty air. "I see you've discovered Isabella's work."

I remembered tensing at the unexpected company but covering it by tracing a painted wave's curl. "Isabella?"

"Isabella Harlow. She was Clark Harlow's wife—she helped restore these in '78." Tom had settled onto one of the metal benches, his manner casual in a way that had put me at ease despite myself. "Story goes, a local artist started them in the sixties. Fellow named Marcus Beltran. He was a sailor who lost his boat in a storm and nearly died out there on the lake. After they rescued him, he spent a month painting these walls. Said he had to capture the lake's power while it was still fresh in his mind."

I'd studied the violent waves in the painting, understanding that compulsion to capture something that had nearly destroyed you.

Tom continued his story. "But Marcus moved away before finishing them. The murals started deteriorating. That's when Isabella stepped in. She didn't stop at restoration—she added to them. See that?" He'd pointed to a quieter scene: early morning mist rising off calm water, painted with such skill you could almost feel the dawn's hush. "That's pure Isabella. She believed in showing the lake's gentler moods too. Beauty balancing power."

The memory faded, and I was back in the present, but Tom's words echoed in my mind: Beauty balancing power. My flashlight caught another of Isabella's additions—a young couple on the beach, his arm around her waist as they watched the sunset. She was so upbeat, like her grandson.

I clicked off the flashlight, plunging the shelter into darkness broken only by gray light seeping through the ventilation shafts. The building stood alone off the electrical grid.

I thought about the connection between past and present, between a woman who saw the lake's many faces and her grandson who sought beauty in unexpected places. The shelter suddenly felt too small, too full of ghosts, coincidences, and the weight of things I'd been trying to forget. I pushed the door open, letting in a gust of wind that carried the scent of approaching rain.

I shook my head and headed back into the gathering storm. I had work to do and preparations to make.

The wind tasted like rain and held the potential for destruction. Using my key, I checked the emergency supplies tucked behind a glass facade on the side of the building, counting batteries and bottles of water. Each item was in its place—order in the face of chaos.

My radio crackled. "Wade?" It was Tom. "Got hikers trying to wait out the weather in their tent up by Eagle Point."

"Tell them it's not optional." I was already moving, grateful for the distraction. "I'll help escort them down."

The campsite perched too close to Eagle Point's edge for comfort, even on a good day. Their tent, a vivid splash of blue against gray stone, whipped in the wind like it was trying to take flight. Two young men stood beside it, arms crossed, with the particular stubborn set to their shoulders I'd seen too many times before.

"But we drove six hours to get here," the taller one protested as I approached. His Patagonia jacket probably cost more than my monthly utility bills. "We can't just leave."

"You can and you will." I kept my voice neutral but firm, the same tone I'd used with rookies in Chicago. "See those clouds getting thicker out over the lake? That's what's left of Hurricane Olivia. It's pulling energy from seventy-five-degree lake water—warmest September temps ever recorded. The system's already dumped eight inches of rain in southern Indiana, and we're looking at as much as six inches here. "

The shorter one—red-haired, with an expensive camera hanging around his neck—gestured at their tent. "The tent's anchored really well. We used extra stakes and everything."

A strong gust caught the tent's rainfly, making it snap like a flag. I didn't bother hiding my grimace. "Those stakes won't mean much when this limestone starts crumbling. Last week's rain has left this whole ridge saturated."

"But—"

"Listen." I stepped closer, noting how the wind was picking up force. The first drops of rain would follow soon. "You seem like smart guys. So let me paint you a picture. That tent is going to act like a sail in sixty-mile-per-hour winds. The soil here is mostly clay over limestone. When it gets waterlogged—" I stomped my boot near the edge, showing how the ground had already started to turn spongy. "—it gets about as stable as wet cardboard."

The red-haired one's resistance wavered. "We didn't know about the clay."

"Most people don't. But I've worked this park for three years, and I've seen what storms do to this point." I paused, letting that sink in. "Two years ago, that chunk of cliff face collapsed." I pointed to a fresh scar. "Nobody was up here then. I'd like to keep our lucky streak going."

A particularly vicious gust yanked one of their tent stakes free. The fabric billowed upward, and both men jumped to grab it. Reality was making my point better than I could.

"Look." I softened my tone. "The Grand Harbor Hotel in town has vacancies. They sometimes offer special storm rates in situations like this. You'll have a dry bed, hot showers, and a front-row seat to watch Lake Michigan put on a show. The marina's lit up at night—the kind of view people usually pay triple for."

The taller one sighed, his resistance crumbling like the cliff beneath us. "You had me at hot showers."

"Smart choice." I pulled out my phone. "I know the owner. Let me make a call and see if I can get a discount locked in."

While I spoke with Carol at the hotel, the guys started breaking down their campsite. The wind tried to turn their tent into an impromptu kite, and I stepped in to help, my hands remembering the familiar motions.

"Thanks." The shorter one stuffed the wet tent into its bag. "I guess we were being kind of stupid."

"Nah." I helped them secure their gear. "Determined. There's a difference. But sometimes the smart play is knowing when to change plans."

With perfect timing, the first fat raindrops began to fall as we made our way to their car. The limestone path had turned slick, and I kept them away from the edge, positioning myself between them and the drop-off out of habit.

"The hotel's got a great restaurant. Try the whitefish. It was probably swimming in the lake this morning."

They waved as they drove off, their taillights disappearing into the gathering gloom. I stayed until I couldn't see them anymore, something tight in my chest loosening. I called Tom over the radio. "Eagle Point's clear. The last campers are headed to the Grand Harbor."

"Copy that." His voice crackled through static. "You going to tell me how you convinced them? I had a couple by the marina earlier who nearly started a riot when I said they had to move."

I thought about the fire, how I'd learned to read people's faces and find the words that would make them listen when seconds counted. "Just gave them a better option."

"You always do." There was a knowing tone in Tom's voice I chose to ignore. "Hey, speaking of better options, Sarah said—"

I clicked the radio off and turned to face the storm. The lake had turned the color of wet slate, waves building with each gust. My scars ached with the dropping pressure, a familiar burn that had nothing to do with the memory of green eyes and a camera's click.

Nothing at all.

The afternoon blurred into motion: relocating another set of campers, securing loose equipment, and checking and double-checking emergency protocols. It was work I could sink into and forget the rest of the world.

As sunset approached, I did one final sweep of the lakeshore. Wind-whipped waves slammed against the rocks, shooting spray ten feet into the air, and the horizon disappeared into a wall of gunmetal gray.

Even the air felt wrong, thick enough to chew, carrying the metallic tang of ozone and that peculiar heaviness that came before severe weather. Despite the wind, the temperature held in the eighties, too warm and thick for September in Wisconsin. The humidity made my uniform cling like a second skin.

Movement caught my eye—a figure with a camera, and for a moment, my heart forgot its careful rhythm. It was just a tourist trying to capture the storm's approach. It wasn't careful hands cradling a Polaroid.

I turned toward the ranger station as the rain intensified, drops so large they stung even through my jacket. Behind me, thunder didn't roll anymore—it cracked like artillery, each blast followed by a rumble that went on and on, bouncing between cloud and water. The storm wasn't coming anymore.

Its front line had arrived.