The rain had started before dawn.
Thick, relentless sheets hammered the sleepy suburb of Willow Creek. Trees bowed beneath the gusts, gutters overflowed, and neighborhood power flickered like candle flames ready to vanish.
Despite the chaos, life staggered on.
At 8:17 a.m., just as steam curled from coffee mugs and kids argued about soggy sneakers, a green RangeStar delivery van groaned to a stop at Pinehurst Lane’s brightest home—#27, the Van Dorrens’. Perfect lawn. Perfect hedges. Perfect people.
Except this morning, Carolyn Van Dorren was far from pleased.
“Finally!” she barked from the covered porch, arms crossed and pajama-clad foot tapping. “It’s only a $49 espresso machine part, not the cure for cancer.”
Drenched and shivering, the driver—Jason—stepped out, clutching a plastic-wrapped box like it was sacred. His brown uniform clung to him, shoes squelching with each step.
“I’m…really sorry…traffic’s been insane,” he said, voice trembling.