“Ohhh. Oh it’s going to rain again,” warbled Ellie. Her small frame clamored to Jake’s side and tugged on his faded jeans. He picked her up and straightened her little blue dress, checkered and tattered with the strenuous work of a busy three year old. His arms supported her while she stared intently at the cerulean sky, mottled and penetrated with strong streaks of gray and pungent stormy blues. Her lips began to quiver and she buried her small head, adorned with waves of light, wispy auburn hair, into his chest. He held her close and kissed her forehead, reassuring her that all was well, there need not be any worry on her part. Fear taxed her tiny body and he quickly grabbed all of their belongings and left for home. Her biting fear of storms came with the death of her mother, a lonely, wayward woman whom Jake loved (still loved) long ago. She left the beach front house on the night of the harshest/bitterest storm the East had ever seen, swept away in the night, by the waves, vanished and untracked.