“THERE’S MOM’S CAR! Come on, Kyle!” I yell, pushing open the front door of our school. I squint into the swirling dust and step outside. Flying grit stings my cheeks.

“Kyle!” I yell, but my voice disappears in the howling wind. “Kyle?”

“Right behind you, Nikki!” Kyle yells, tugging on my coat.

Whew! He’s with me. As his big sister—I’ll be thirteen next month—I try to look out for him at school. He’s small for a nine-year-old, and his attention tends to wander.

Kyle and I make a dash to Mom’s SUV. I jump into the front seat (my turn this week), and Kyle dives into the back.

“You made it! Good job!” Mom says, but her voice is not cheery. She peers into the darkened sky and pulls away from the curb. “Nikki, turn up the radio.”

The announcer reports: “High wind warning for central and eastern Colorado. Gusts up to seventy-five miles per hour. Seek shelter inside.”

“You two watch for downed power lines and tree limbs,” Mom says.

I peer into the gloom but see nothing dangerous. Then . . .

BLAM! Something slams into the windshield, HARD.

Mom hits the brakes and swerves to a stop on the gravel. “Everyone OK?”

We’re both saying “yes,” but I gasp when I see the big hawk