The Night Watch
Before the forecast had a headline, somebody had to decide whether to leave home.
CHAPTER GLIMPSE
A short passage from a forthcoming installment of CONTINGENCY.
CONTINGENCY IS SERIALIZED POLITICAL FICTION.
Tara finished the lunches before she opened the radar again.
Two peanut-butter sandwiches went into the blue box. An apple beside each. Abby’s had a note folded under the napkin—*You know this*—because finals week had reached middle school too, in its smaller and more dramatic form.
Rain ticked the kitchen window. On Tara’s phone, a line of storms had stopped behaving like a line. The cells kept rebuilding over Tippecanoe County, bright reds passing over the same ground while the forecast discussion softened its verbs.
The operations chat added a video from West Lafayette. Water slid across River Road in a thin reflective sheet. Not deep. Not fast. The kind people drove through because they could still see the pavement beneath it.
Her former husband’s thread sat one swipe away. He was usually reliable when she asked. Asking left room for an answer she did not control.
So she sent one text to Megan Kline next door.
**TEXT**
Tara: Can you get Abby after school if this runs long?
Megan: Of course. She can stay for dinner too.
Tara: Thank you. Key still under the blue planter.
Abby appeared in the doorway in socks, hair flattened on one side. “Are you leaving?”
“For a few hours.”
Her daughter looked at the go-bag by the chair, then at the rain. She had learned enough to know that a few hours was not a unit of time.
“Megan has pickup,” Tara said. “Lunch is in the fridge. Your shoes are still on the vent.”
“I know.”
“I know you know.”
Tara kissed the top of her head, took the bag, and left before either of them could make the exchange carry more than it needed.
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