CHAPTER 1
VANE
Iâm lucky to be alive.
At least, thatâs what everybody keeps telling me.
The reporter from the local newspaper even had the nerve to call it a miracle. I was 'Vane Weston: The Miracle Child.' Like the police finding me unconscious in a pile of rubble was part of some grand universal plan.
'Family Survives Tornado'-now, that wouldâve been a miracle. But trust me, thereâs nothing 'miraculous' about being orphaned at seven years old.
Itâs not that Iâm not grateful to be alive. I am. I get that I shouldnât have survived. But thatâs the worst part about being 'The Miracle Child.'
The question.
The same inescapable question, plaguing me for the last ten years of my life.
How?
How could I get sucked in by a category-five tornado-natureâs equivalent of a giant blender-get carried over four miles before the massive funnel spit me back out, and only have a few cuts and bruises to show for it? How was that possible, when my parentsâ bodies were found almost unrecognizable?
The police donât know.
Scientists donât know.
So they all turn to me for the answer.
But I have no freaking idea.
I canât remember it. That day. My past. Anything.
Well, I canât remember anything useful.
I remember fear.
I remember wind.
And then . . . a giant, blank space. Like all my memories were knocked out of my head when I hit the ground.
Except one.
One isolated memory-and Iâm not even sure if it is a memory, or if itâs some strange hallucination my traumatized brain cooked up.
A face, watching me through the chaos of the storm.
A girl. Dark hair. Darker eyes. A single tear streaks down her cheek. Then a chilly breeze whisks her away.
Sheâs haunted my dreams ever since.