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“The cots are set up, and the Red Cross people are ready to get started,” Nathans tells me as we clip toward the gym. “You’ve got the spreadsheet of volunteers?”

“Yep!” I say, waving a sheaf of papers above my head. It’s not the spreadsheet; it’s the Henley Headlines issues I need to catch up on. But Nathans only nods, and I slide into my seat at the welcoming table, whip out my laptop, and print out the volunteer list while she critically inspects the linens on the cots. Last year she’d done an impromptu bacterial swipe on one and came back a week later with a petri dish full of happily replicating staph. We’d had to inform the Red Cross, and all the blood we’d gathered had to be disposed of—a fact that did not make it onto my résumé.

I dash over to the office to retrieve my printed sheets and give the donor list a quick once-over before I ask St. John to start calling them down. I’m surprised to see Bristal’s name on the list, followed by a big red X.

“Do you think you could start calling down the first wave of blood donors?” I ask Eva St. John, giving her my highest-wattage smile. “Maybe start with eight, and I’ll let you know when the beds empty out and you can send more.”

“Sure thing,” Eva says, absently scrolling the student list. “What kind of doughnuts you got down there this time?”

“Everything,” I tell her. I had pulled a few kids serving in-school suspension to help carry doughnuts, and I even conned some of them into donating blood in order to get one.

“You’re stuck here anyway,” I told Brandon Childress, who got three days ISS for hiding a vape pen in the panels of the boy’s bathroom ceiling. Insiders knew where to go when they wanted a hit, but Jake Milhaus had slipped off the toilet when he tried to put it back and got a concussion for his trouble.

Brandon talked a few of his cohorts into accepting the needle, but the Red Cross people turn away Jake Milhaus, who is still suffering from his fall. I try to push for them to accept him—he’s looking at the doughnut table the way I do the short list for Pulitzers—but when the nurse shows me his application, even I can’t deny that he’s not a good candidate. His writing slants off to one side, and he spelled his name wrong. Besides that, he appears to have herpes.

Which reminds me—why was Bristal turned away?

“Please don’t have herpes,” I say to the sheaf of papers. I know it’s a sexually transmitted disease, but I was just holding her phone last night, and I doubt she’s the type to disinfect daily.

As if my very thought of her had conjured it, my phone lights up with a text.

Can’t get into see Dover until next week. Guess he got in trouble for “using urine as a weapon” on a guard.

“Nice,” I say under my breath. Then type, I’m at the blood drive. You were turned away, just FYI. Don’t come down here looking for donuts.

I give the gym a quick glance, but everything seems to be going fine. Nathans is walking through the rows of cots, offering up a sympathetic ear and tips for anyone who is struggling. I was relegated to the welcome table my sophomore year, after I’d tried to comfort a girl by telling her that her body held ten pints of blood and that we were only taking one. Then I’d held up her bag to show her how far along she was, hoping that it would give her stamina to make the push for the finish line. Instead, she passed out, and Nathans decided to put someone who was better with feelings than facts on the bedside duties. I surreptitiously slide the Hometown Henley Headlines to the top of my volunteer paperwork.

The Hometown Henley Headlines had issued only one page on the fourteenth, the day after the tornado, and I hadn’t failed to notice that the lone article was from the Associated Press—not a local reporter. The June 15 paper has more of a local flavor and a familiar byline from the owner, operator, photographer, and single reporter who ran the Headlines back in the nineties.

Hope Survives in Henley

June 15, 1994

By David Swinton

Though our hometown is still reduced to rubble and soldiers patrol the streets, many hearts rest easier today in Henley. An overnight flutter of activity—that this reporter was directly involved in—resulted in a great reduction of our list of missing. After calling local hospitals with the roster, and in some cases personally checking in on those who had not recovered consciousness and needed to be identified, the Hometown Headlines is happy to report that at this time, the number of missing people has been drastically reduced to only three.

It is with a heavy heart, though, that we share the names of the deceased:

I skim over the next paragraph, knowing full well who they were and how they died; the monument at the base of the water tower exists to remind everyone. A young couple and their infant had done what they were supposed to do—take cover in the basement. But the next-door fire station had collapsed, most of the second story toppling onto their roof, driving their house down upon their heads as they huddled below.

The fourth name on the monument is that of an elderly woman who everyone agrees probably just had a heart attack, but since she died on the day of the tornado and nobody can say for sure whether it was the tornado that caused it, the village council decided to go ahead and give her the honor of being listed on the monument.

Swinton picks up a thread from the AP article of the day before, commenting on the number of loose dogs in the area.

Linda Chance, the local dog warden, is asking that anyone who is missing their pets to please come check at the pound in person. As we all know, Linda is the only paid employee of the pound, and her volunteer staff are all helping family members in this tumultuous time. The dog shelter has been flooded with calls . . .

I wince at the poor choice of words, only too aware of what lies in store for the residents of the pound.

. . . and Linda is unable to answer everyone’s question at this time.

“People call and ask if I have their dog, but all they can tell me is that his name is Brutus and that he’s brown and would never bite anyone. I’ve got thirty-seven dogs in here right now. A lot of them are brown. Half of them are named Brutus. Most of them don’t have collars, and every single one of them is scared to death. I’ve been out on five stray calls just today and got bit each time. So don’t tell me your dog is brown and he won’t bite. Get your [expletive deleted] down here and look for your dog yourself, if you care at all.”

I cover a smile and hope no one thinks I’m tallying up pints and am maniacally happy about bags of blood. Linda is still the warden and has devoted her life to the county kennel. She has two ex-husbands and no kids, and her front office is filled with pamphlets about getting your pets spayed and neutered, tips on protecting them from parasites, and framed, hand-stitched sentiments like “If You’re Aware of the Dog, You Don’t Have to Beware of It” and “A Man Who Will Kick a Dog Will Hit a Human.”

I take a look at my notepad, adding Linda Chance to the list of people I’ll need to talk to, along with Bailey Foxglove. I add David Swinton as well, and my pen hovers for a second as I consider the names of the dead from the tornado. Their family members have been since wrung dry of any information, as well as tears. Every year on the anniversary, they’re asked to “say a few words,” and those words have become repetitive. Everyone listens, and people still bow their heads, but every year the blood that was spilled feels a little thinner.

Which reminds me—I’ve already promised a Civil War monument dedication episode to my listeners, and if I do a quick switch to Henley’s less glorious moments, I might lose some eardrums—which, according to my stats, I can’t really afford. I need to find a way to honor the moment while providing a new angle, something that can serve as a transition into coverage of the long stretch and a more critical eye on my hometown.