Chapter 4: Racing Home

After a few rings, Dad picked up—his voice muffled by wind and birdsong. I could picture him, sunburned and stubborn, kneeling in the dirt behind our old farmhouse.

"Hey, Dad. Are you digging potatoes right now?"

He laughed, deep and familiar. "Yeah, how’d you know? What’s up, Casey?"

Just like last time, my parents hadn’t seen the warnings yet. Their phones stayed on the kitchen counter, ringers off, unless someone called. Dad trusted the weather more than any alert.

Their stubborn routine was my advantage. While the world panicked, they were safe—if I could get to them in time.

"Dad, listen. There’s going to be crazy weather—earthquakes, floods, maybe both. Please." My voice shook. Dad hated doomsday talk. He’d survived blizzards, hail, even a tornado—but floods were different.

"No way, Casey. Forecast says sunshine. I’ve got work to do." He tried to brush it off, but I pressed on.

"Check your phone. I just sent you a video—look at what’s happening here."

I airdropped him the footage: frantic shoppers, empty shelves, chaos. He went silent, the fear finally creeping in.

"Son, don’t bother panic-buying, just come home. We’ve got two acres of potatoes, a dozen chickens, and a thousand pounds of wheat."

His voice was steady, but I heard the worry. In my last life, I’d ignored him—thought I knew better. Never again.

This time, I’d save us all, or die trying.

I told Dad to load everything—potatoes, wheat, essentials—into the truck and drive to Maple Ridge, ten miles from home. "Don’t wait for the sheriff or the neighbors. Get to Maple Ridge. I’ll meet you there."

Maple Ridge: three thousand feet above sea level, ringed with red maples, forgotten by tourists. It was all we had.