The power went out at exactly 2:00 a.m., and the silence that followed felt physical, like the whole neighborhood had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale. One second my furnace was cycling normally, the house humming with that steady suburban comfort you don’t notice until it’s gone. The next, the lights blinked twice and died.
The refrigerator stopped mid-whir. Even the faint buzz of the streetlamp outside my window vanished, leaving only the sound of wind dragging snow across the siding like fingernails on a chalkboard. Outside, Minnesota was doing what Minnesota does when it decides to remind you who’s in charge.
The storm had been building all week, every forecast growing more dramatic, every meteorologist more apologetic. Meadowbrook Heights is the kind of development where people argue about the correct shade of beige for exterior trim, but even the HOA email blasts had taken on a nervous tone: secure patio furniture, stock supplies, avoid travel. The temperature read minus twelve degrees and dropping.
Wind chill was already pushing minus thirty. My first thought wasn’t about my own pipes or pantry or the extra blankets in the hall closet. It was Mrs.
Patterson next door. She was seventy-eight, lived alone since her husband died last year, and had the stubborn pride of someone who’d raised kids in an era when you didn’t ask for help unless you were bleeding. I’d heard stories about the winters she’d survived, but those winters were different.
Back then, communities were warmer even when the temperatures weren’t. People checked on each other because they had to. In Meadowbrook Heights, most people checked on each other via Facebook posts and Ring camera footage.
I forced myself to focus. I’d prepared for this storm like I was stocking a bunker—not out of paranoia, but because two summers ago a thunderstorm had knocked out power for four days and the HOA had treated my generator like a moral failing. I’d bought a Honda EU7000iS after that outage.
It wasn’t cheap, but it was reliable and quieter than most. I’d done everything right: transfer switch installed by a licensed electrician buddy, permits filed, setup designed so I wouldn’t backfeed into the grid and accidentally electrocute some lineman trying to restore power. I was the kind of guy who read manuals and labeled circuits.
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