Page 40 of Iggy

“Move.”

“Where?”

“Out.”

“No.” He stepped onto the porch. “That ain’t an answer.”

“It’s the one you’re getting.”

Water hammered the tin awning. The weather radio on the kitchen counter repeated the warning in its flat mechanical voice: hurricane conditions expected by early evening, life-threatening storm surge, all residents should shelter in place.

Tank glanced toward the sound and then at the old dirt bike chained beside the shed.

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“Probably,” she shrugged.

“That bike’s got half a tank, bald tires, and no lights. You’d be better off taking the Harley.”

“It has a headlight, that’s all I’m worried about.”

He came down one step, broad shoulders blocking what little light escaped the kitchen.

“Tell me where you’re going.”

Neela lifted the backpack and slung it on. Its weight landed between her shoulder blades like a hand trying to push her down.

“No.” She knew it was coming. His incessant peppering with questions. He wasn’t going to let it go but she wasn’t going to answer him.

“Who are you meeting?” She stared at the rain. “Is it him?”

Her hand stopped on the bike key. Tank’s voice sharpened.

“It is. That little frat boy called you, didn’t he?”

“Go inside.”

“Luca, Terry, whatever name he’s wearing this week—he calls, and you jump on a bike in a hurricane?”

“Tropical storm right now.”

“Oh, good. Then this is sensible.” She unhooked the chain and let it fall into the mud. Tank caught the handlebar.

“Give me the key.”

“Let go.”

“Tell me where Olive is.”

Neela looked up at him. The question struck harder because he said the name softly.

“I don’t know.”

“Then tell me what you do know.”

“I know if you don’t take your hand off this bike, I’m going to break one of your fingers.” He leaned closer. Rain slid off his hair and down his face.

“You think threatening me makes this less stupid?”