R-U-N

She’s always been afraid of storms. Growing up in the Midwest, there was no shortage of severe weather to torment her either. Her small body, wracked with sobs, shook along with the walls as thunder rumbled. Flashes of lightning caused her tiny hands to curl around her ears in anticipation. As she grew, even the sound of rain set her heart racing. She moved to the desert the first chance she got.

Now, if you looked at her, you would assume she wasn’t afraid of anything. She towers over most people, with broad shoulders and an easy smile. An obsession with adrenaline highs and extreme outdoor activities. She is confident in the way only people with bizarre and specific interests can be. Her interests? Coding.

All kinds. It started when she was young and learned about the Navajo Code Talkers in World War II. She decided to learn all of the other codes the militaries used in WWII. Then it branched into researching all different kinds of coding languages used throughout history for espionage and war. She had learned Java by the time she was 16. And then Python. Finally, after years it occurred to her to learn Morse Code.

It’s a Tuesday at 5:00 PM. It’s December, and the rainy season is just getting underway. She’s grateful her shaking and crying has subsided with age. She’s even come to love the sound of rain hitting the hard desert ground. It’s the sound of life beating back into the dry, cracked earth. She’s relaxing after a long day of work. She has a mug of mulled wine and some Christmas cookies. Her feet are wrapped in warm woolen socks, and she’s wearing the sweater her grandma hand-knit her for Christmas last year.

She’s got Christmas music playing over the sound system in her home. She’s scrolling through Twitter when the rain starts. At first, she didn't notice. When she does, she pauses the music and cracks the window open. She wants to be able to smell the humidity and the earth as it soaks the ground.

She doesn’t notice at first. The rain is always so rhythmic, and it lulls her into a calm. Then her brain, always looking for patterns, notices. The rhythm has a pattern.

The rain is falling in a pattern. A short burst of rain, followed by a slightly more prolonged moment, then a short burst, a pause. Two short bursts followed by a prolonged moment and a pause. Prolonged moments of rain and then a short burst and a pause. The pattern starts again. Weird. It’s almost as if the rain is spelling out R-U-N as it falls.

She shakes her head; clearly, her mind is finding patterns in the most random places. And yet, the pattern continues. For the next 30 minutes, as the rain falls. Only becoming erratic as it slows and comes to a stop.

But why would the rain be telling anyone to run?

She closes the window, grabs her mug, and curls up on the couch once again. This time she keeps the music turned off, in case the rain starts again. It doesn’t.

It’s another Tuesday just after Christmas. She’s getting ready to leave for work with a new handknit sweater and socks to match, sweeping her long brown hair up into a bun on the top of her head when she hears it. The rain is falling again. Of course, it has rained in the last few weeks, with no discernible pattern detected. But she listens carefully each time now, curious.

She makes her way into her kitchen, and opens the window over the sink, and listens. This time, she hears it.

A short burst of rain, followed by a slightly more prolonged moment, then a short burst, a pause. Two short bursts followed by a prolonged moment and a pause. Prolonged moment of rain and then a short burst and a pause. The pattern starts again. R-U-N.

The rain is telling her to run? Where?

She pulls on her rain jacket and boots, grabs her purse and keys, and is out the door. She’s not planning on running, just going to work.

The pattern is coming faster now, as if urgent.

She starts her car. And then she sees it. She starts to drive, taking deep breaths. She works her car up to higher and higher speeds until she is racing down the interstate highway. She flips her radio on. Static. Then, beeps. One short, one long, one short, pause. Two short, one long, pause. Long beep, short, pause. Repeat. Over and over. The rain is making the same rhythm on the roof of the car.

And she can still see it in her rearview mirror. An inky black cloud slowly envelops the city behind her. She doesn’t know what it is, but she isn’t staying to find out why the rain tells her to run.

At this moment, she’s grateful she had filled her tank on her way home from work last night instead of waiting until this morning. The needle of the speedometer is sitting at the far side, she can’t go any faster, but the cloud seems to be gathering speed. And the beeping on the radio is getting faster and faster. Until suddenly, it stops. And changes. Two long beeps, pause, one short. The rain changes too. Same pattern. M-T.

Mountains?

She has nothing to lose, so she keeps driving north, where she can see the mountains towering. She feels her ears pop as she rapidly gains elevation. The cloud is getting closer. She keeps driving.

She begins her ascent up the mountain pass. The pattern changes again. Two short beeps, one long, pause. One short, two long, one short, pause. Repeat. U-P.

She slows as she takes the small exit road that leads up the mountain instead of continuing on through the pass. She hopes this is right. Why are her radio and rain even talking to her? Has she lost her mind?

The cloud is getting closer. She drives until she can’t. She parks her car along the road, near a trailhead marker. It isn’t raining here. Before she turns off her car, she notes the radio is still telling her U-P. Her hiking gear never leaves her car, so she slips her boots on. Grabs the emergency water supply and blanket from her trunk and shoves it all in her backpack that already has her single-person tent and MRE packs.

She goes up. As fast as she can. All the while watching the cloud lick at the foot of the mountain. She breaks through the treeline. There’s nowhere left to go, so she stops and looks down.

The cloud is spreading up the mountain range but isn’t coming any higher. Almost as if it’s too dense to rise this high. She settles onto a rock. Hoping everyone down below is okay and wondering how long she’s going to be stuck here.

“Oh, thank God.” She hears a voice say. She whips around. A beautiful woman comes up out of the treeline. She is petite, has her hair braided back, also in work clothes accessorized with hiking boots and a pack, “I thought I would be stuck here alone. My name’s May.”

“Did the rain tell you to run too?” The woman, May, nods.