The storm came through at four in the afternoon, which is the wrong time for a storm like that. Tornadoes in this county arrive in the dark, when the sirens sound like something apologising. This one arrived while the sun was still out.
It took the roof. It took the shed, the fence, both gutters, and a box of my mother's photographs that had survived three moves and a divorce.
What it left was a bicycle I had never seen before. Blue, women's frame, a basket with a plastic flower still clipped to it. It was standing upright in the middle of the yard, perfectly balanced, on ground that was otherwise scraped down to bare dirt.
I called the county. They said they had no reports.
I called my sister, who said the sensible thing, which was to leave it alone. I did not leave it alone.