When the thunder comes

 

 

When the thunder comes, Hanna does too, black tail tucked, drops to the floor under the pale wooden desk. I drop too, slide under the desk to my stomach, stroking her, whispering. This is your home. You're safe inside. From his hiding spot under the guest room bed, Wilson hears us. He slinks up the hall to the office door, belly low to the gray floor. It's four feet to the desk and he's scared. I coax him. You're okay. You can do it. He runs to us. I place one palm on Hanna's thick body and curl one arm around Wilson's tiny orange frame. I fold my body inside the desk's legs—a wall on two sides. They lie together inside the wall, ears perked, eyes wide. Together, we listen to the thunder. We practice being brave. We keep each other safe.