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Show Twisters . . . 43 fluttered up and over the foundation in the gusting wind, A tangle of two-by-fours barricaded us in the bathroom. I couldn't speak. I just stood there, letting the horrible truth soak in. Arthur stepped over a paint can, over a striped towel I'd never seen before. In a half-strangled voice he said, "You can't bring Ryan out here." "I can't leave him in there by himself!" I couldn't stay behind, didn't Arthur know that? I was scared. I had to get out to find my mom. He didn't argue when I followed him. Besides, he needed my help to open up even the skinniest passage alongside the bathroom wall. We hadn't cleared three feet toward the stairs before we knew we were blocked in that direction. Dad's rocker-lounger was wedged into the hallway ahead of us, buried under a ton of stuff. Somebody's camper shell rested on top of it all. "I can't budge it," Arthur groaned, after several tries at moving the camper top. I slumped against the wall, totally discouraged. "The stairs are buried, too," I said, "they'd have to be." Arthur climbed up onto the arm of Dad's chair. From there he covered the west foundation from one end to the other with the light. "My gosh, Dan, look at that!" Outlined against the black sky, the northwest corner walls of our house sagged freakishly toward each other. I thoughtof skin flaps curling over a wound. It made me sick to look at it. "Ryan's room," I said, " . . . the bunny wallpaper." As much as I wanted my mom and dad right then, I was glad they weren't |