The cameraman zooms in on a the reporter's flapping khakis. They're certainly flapping. No doubt about it. A ways off, toward the end of the parking lot, a piece of trash flies across the asphault. It goes pretty fast.

The reporter is at the corner of McFarland and Skyland Boulevard waiting for a tornado he knows is coming. All signs point to tornado. An eerie greenish evening sky. There certainly is a breeze and it certainly is changing directions sporadically. First his pants are flapping one way. Then, in an instant, they are flapping another way. He tells me this. He looks into the camera and tells me this: The wind is changing direction. Oh god.

How awkward he seems, there on screen, alone in an empty mall parking lot. Cars drive by. Trucks, too, and their drafts make his pants flap even more. He wants there to be a tornado. He wants to have predicted it. He wants the vectors and the wind shifts to mean something.

It's definitely coming. And I'm in my safe place. And no matter what happens tonight, I'm not going anywhere near Skyland Boulevard.