Page 46 of The Storm

I hear him move and shuffle around, followed by a clang and a sharp inhale.

“Who the fuck put that shelf here?” he asks.

I turn the flashlight on again. He squints and still doesn’t say anything sarcastic.

“Hey,” he says. “Try calling 911.”

I latch on to the task like my life depends on it. Technically, it does. But it’s also nice to have something to do. It leaves me less time to think.

“No signal?” Nick asks like he already expected that.

I swallow past the dryness in my throat. “No.”

“Figures. Can’t even get reception when it matters.”

He considers our surroundings for a bit.

“Come here,” he says. “Help me clear this up a bit.” One shelf has toppled over and some of the containers have been thrown off the shelves. We spend the next several minutes clearing what we can. We work in short bursts. His shoulder keeps bumping into mine. It’s a narrow space, barely wide enough for one person. Even so, every time our bodies come into contact, it feels like he’s doing it on purpose.

“Hold this.” Nick presses a bottle of water into my hand. He keeps moving around, keeping me busy, giving me pointless tasks to keep me occupied.

I don’t even notice when my breathing evens out, just that it does.

And Nick doesn’t snap or tell me to get over it.

He’s just… here.

He seemsto run out of things to talk about eventually, because making me hold things and loudly cataloging all the food stored in this fridge can only kill so much time. All the while, he keeps sending me cautious looks every few seconds.

“I’m fine now,” I say once he pauses for long enough for me to get a word in. “I’m not going to freak out again.” I consider that for a second before I add, “At least, not right this second.”

“Good,” he says. “My turn, then.”

I take a seat and lean against the shelf. He comes and sits down right next to me. And I’m grateful. Grateful he doesn’t put distance between the two of us. He leans his head back and looks at the ceiling.

“I didn’t even know youcouldfreak out,” I say. “You don’t exactly give that impression.”

He turns his head and looks at me. “No?”

I shake my head. “You could. You know, to be nice.”

“When have I ever been nice?”

“Rarely. You’re twitchy now, though.”

He sends me a droll look.

“Erratic,” I say. “I’m not dying right this second.”

I roll the inhaler in my palm for a moment and take a third puff. Just in case.

Nick eyes me the whole time. I feel my face get warm.

I clear my throat. “Umm… intense anxiety can trigger asthma. Or at least mimic the symptoms. It’s difficult to say sometimes. You know, in the heat of the moment and all.”

He plucks the inhaler out of my hand and squints as he reads the label before wordlessly handing it back.

“Panic causes asthma?” he asks.