29 “What in the world happened last night?” I asked my father. My young mind searched for an adultish word to impress him. “It was… frightening.” Even that descriptor seemed inadequate. “It was the Santa Ana winds,” Dad explained. “The what?” I chimed. “What’s that?” Laurence chirped. “It’s a weather phenomenon that happens in California during the fall,” Dad responded. I spooned more eggs into my mouth. “It’s kind of like a hurricane, but without the rain, and it doesn’t rotate.” The description seemed odd. What kind of storm visits and bears no rain? And the name was so plain, yet haunting. In my mind, the name should’ve been whispered fearfully between passing strangers and hissed between gritted teeth like an epithet. Santa Ana is coming. She cannot be stopped. She shows no mercy. Our dad took us outside to check for any damage. In the backyard, the swings on the swing set were tossed over the crossbar. Paper airplanes that I had lost in the rain gutters were rammed in bushes and wet with dew on the grass. The mysterious midnight sun that I noticed was produced by transformers blowing across town. It was their light that had lent the night its freakish glow. The THUMP that had awoken me was simply our gate rocking drunkenly on its hinges, torn loose from its lock.
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