Rains and Whistling Trains

It was raining, pouring, hammering on the walls of the old musty tent. If they didn’t touch the walls the water only came in through the three dozen or so small holes in the green canvas a drip at a time. The two boys reveled in the thunderous downpour, turning a bright summer afternoon filled with sailing and swimming and archery and arts & crafts and other merit badge-earning activities into a peaceful respite from activity with in-depth analysis of comic books and science fiction and shooting the breeze about their classmates and fellow scouts. It was a timeless afternoon, making for a precious memory. What made that afternoon most memorable, though, was not the lack of activities. It was the contrast between that moment and what followed. When the boys skipped swimming lessons that afternoon, they missed the announcement. They had no clue about the tornado warning.

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