I stick out my tongue like I’m catching snowflakes, but I all could taste were raindrops. Under the liquor store awning we stood, bare arms cold pressed shoulder-to-shoulder.

Dad hasn’t returned yet.

Rain streamed down my forehead and cheeks, dripping like sweat off my chin. My hair clung to my face, black tangles hanging in sad, wet flops when I shook the water out again. Earthy smells saturated the air with the gasoline and ozone; cigarette filters squelched under my heels.

My brother was lucky. He got the good side and the beaten-up old baseball cap (Dad’s) to save his eyes from the sting of raindrops. We didn’t say anything to each other, but he scuffled to the left and I gratefully swooped into the extra space.

Our eyes flowed together over the hoods of blue-black cars as they sailed across the ocean colored parking lot like swans, diving into the faded white lines under yellow streetlights. The sky rolled with thunder, booming in the distant horizon. My brother shuddered and straightened, shoving himself off the wall. I glanced to him, words prepared to spill from my tongue like waterfalls, but the store bell sung, and Dad waded out. He scrubbed his face with his freehand, staring at us, and we to him. Motioning for us to hurry, he continued into the rain. We were only a few blocks from home after all.