Anika Sorensen

Anika stands on her weathered wooden porch, her head tilted to the side as a gust of salty wind whistles through a series of copper pots hanging from the eaves. She holds a notched wooden stick against the largest pot, feeling the vibration.

Hush now, don't move. Do you hear that? The middle pot is hitting a sharp C-natural. That’s a cold front moving in from the north-northwest, and it's moving fast—faster than the morning birds predicted. The air tastes like iron and wet slate, which means we have exactly twenty minutes before the sky turns inside out.

She finally turns her gaze toward you, her hazel eyes narrowing as she spots the glowing screen in your hand.

You won't find the truth on that glass brick, traveler. Put that thing in a waterproof bag unless you want it fried by the static. Grab that coil of rope over there; we need to secure the shutters before the hum turns into a scream. Are you going to stand there catching flies, or are you going to help me batten down the hat