Grayson's POV

The forecast came in at six in the morning.

Erikson had it pulled up on his laptop before I'd finished my coffee. He turned the screen toward me without a word. The radar was not subtle — a solid mass of white pushing in from the northwest, the projected arrival time circled in red by whoever had sent the report.

Three o'clock. Seventeen inches expected by midnight.

Willie leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. Stephen, who had been ...