The paper was at the printer and the edits were done. For a moment, it felt like a typical Tuesday afternoon. As it inched closer to 3:00 p.m., the sky west of Atoka was telling a different story; one of deep, bruised colors that mirrored the reports coming over the radio.
As a journalist, your instinct is to watch. You listen to the reports of rotation moving east from Connerville toward Bromide and calculate the distance.
Yet, as a granddaughter, my instinct was to move. I left the office to head home, wanting to make sure my grandmother wasn't facing the storm alone.
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