Waiting For The Storm To Pass

The porch light blinked twice, went dark, and left Mara Ellison staring at her own reflection in the black window.

Outside, rain drove sideways across the street, silver whenever lightning opened the sky. The power had been failing all evening - lights dimming during dinner, the television coughing into silence, the furnace shuddering back to life only to quit again. Now the house had gone still except for the storm and the frightened ticking of the wall clock.

“Mom?” Jonah called from the hallway. “Is it out again?”

Mara turned from the window. “It’s out.”

A small whimper came from the living room floor. Poppy, their old shepherd mix, pressed herself against the couch, ears flat. Eight-year-old Lila sat beside her with a blanket gathered under her chin.

“How long?” Jonah asked.

Mara found the flashlight on the mantel and clicked it on. The beam shook once in her hand before settling over his face. He was fourteen, tall enough to look nearly grown until fear narrowed his eyes.

“Long enough for us to get comfortable,” she said. “Then it’ll come back.”

It was a lie shaped like reassurance. She had been telling it since the first flicker, and each time the storm answered with another low growl of thunder.

She crossed to the woodstove in the corner and crouched beside it. The fire had collapsed into red coals. The stove was decorative, installed by the previous owner without a proper flue. It had never been used. Their real backup sat beneath the side table: a small propane heater meant for emergencies, the kind Mara had bought after the January freeze and kept sealed in its box.

“Jonah, bring me the heater. Lila, stay on the couch.”

“I can help,” Lila said.

“You can keep Poppy company. That’s important.”

Lila’s fingers tightened in the dog’s fur. “Is the storm going to break the windows?”

“No.” Mara looked toward the glass, where a branch scraped and scraped like a fingernail. “The windows are strong.”

Another flash whitened the room. A second later, thunder struck hard enough to rattle the framed photographs on the wall.

Jonah returned carrying the heater against his chest. “The box is wet.”

“Wet?”

“It was in the mudroom. Water’s coming under the door.”

Mara took it from him. Cold water ran over her wrist. The mudroom door had been leaking for years, but never like this. She hurried down the hallway, flashlight beam jumping over the walls. At the far end, beneath the door, a thin stream of brown water slid across the tile.

The storm surge had reached their street.

For one second she stood there, listening. Rain hammered the roof. Water tapped against the baseboards. Somewhere outside, something large struck a fence and dragged along it.

“Mom?” Jonah said behind her.

“Get towels.”

He moved immediately. That steadiness in him frightened her more than panic would have. He was watching her for instructions, measuring every breath she took.

Mara set the heater on the living-room rug and opened the box. The propane canister was cold and slick. She wiped it with her sleeve, attached it, and turned the valve.

Nothing happened.

She tried again. The igniter clicked, clicked, clicked.

“Come on,” she whispered.

A tiny blue flame appeared, then vanished.

Jonah knelt beside her. “Is it broken?”

“It’s temperamental.”

“That means broken.”

“It means try again.”

Lila’s voice drifted from the couch. “Mom, my hands are cold.”

Mara looked over. Lila’s lips had begun to pale. The room had cooled sharply since the furnace stopped. Their breath did not show yet, but the chill had slipped beneath Mara’s sweater and settled between her shoulder blades.

“Blankets,” Mara said. “All of them.”

Jonah ran to the bedrooms. Mara turned the valve once more and struck the igniter. The heater flared, a weak yellow tongue, then steadied.

“There,” she said.

The warmth was barely noticeable, but it was something. She pulled the heater away from the blankets and placed it on a metal baking sheet. Jonah returned with quilts piled to his chin.

“Keep the hallway door shut,” Mara told him. “We’ll stay together in here.”

“What about the water?”

“I’ll check it.”

“You said stay together.”

“I’m checking the door, not going outside.”

He looked as if he wanted to argue. Instead, he lowered the blankets onto the couch.

Mara crossed the room and pushed the hallway door nearly closed. Water had reached the first strip of carpet. She dragged a towel against the threshold, then another. The cold seeped through her knees as she worked. When she stood, a gust rattled the front door in its frame.

The house gave a long, low creak.

“Mom,” Jonah said quietly.

“I heard it.”

The heater snapped.

Mara turned. Its flame had shrunk to a pinprick.

“No,” she said.

She hurried back and lifted the canister. It was empty.

Jonah stared at it. “That was the last one?”

“The last full one.”

“You said we had two.”

“The other was half-used.”

“For the camping stove.”

“I know.”

He looked toward the kitchen. “Could we use that?”

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