The next morning dawns grey and overcast, the sky a blanket of low, heavy clouds that promises rain but doesn't quite deliver. The air is thick with the smell of damp earth and salt, and the sounds of the city are muted, as if the entire town is holding its breath, waiting for the storm to break.
It's a port town, so storms are likely to be common here. May is staring, face pressed to the window almost comically, up at the clouds. "Is it gonna rain?"
"Hope not." Lucas says. He's sitting at the small table in our room, legs crossed, nursing whatever passes for a coffee here. "Wouldn't be safe to go out into that place in a storm. Too many unknowns all at once." He says, not looking at May but clearly talking to her.
She pulls away from the window and plops down on the edge of my bed, crossing her arms with a little puff of her cheeks. "But I like. The rain." She huffs.
