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Show Twisters . . . 42 THE NEXT HOUR OR SO By the time the storm gave us a break we were soaking wet and getting colder by the minute. Already water had risen to the top of the tiles edging the shower. I knew we couldn't stay there much longer. Ryan needed dry clothes. I had to find Mom. "Listen," Arthur said, once things quieted a little, "do you hear water running?" I'd been hearing it: water gurgling, splashing onto the cement floor. "Pipes are broken," he said. "Let's go," I said through chattering teeth, though I didn't have any idea where. Arthur got out ahead of me, carefully picking his way across the bathroom rubble. He held up something shiny-our towel rack, bent like a boomerang. With that he dug for the flashlight, which miraculously was still on between chunks of sheetrock. "Want me to check around first?" he asked. "No, wait, I'm coming." I got stiffly to my feet and shifted Ryan to avoid the jagged edge of the shower door, "If the stairs are clear, we can walk right on up, like always." Ryan patted my face. He was as glad to be up and moving as I was. The first shock was Arthur's because he had the flashlight. When I pushed into the doorway beside him, my hopes plunged right out of sight. Our house was gone. Roof, walls, floor-gone! Only the foundation remained. In between and all over was a jungle of fallen support beams and splintered wood. I caught my breath. "Pick-up-sticks," Arthur said. Our furniture, clothes, books were unbelievably mixed into the wreckage. Papers were scattered everywhere. Like white bats, they |