"Two months," I gasp as I rip open the curtains and the sunlight slams into my face. "You're whispering again," Mom says from the kitchen, voice thin with sleep. "What's wrong?" "Tell me the date," I say, mouth already full of warm soy milk. I shove the cup back into her hands and keep my eyes on her. She blinks. "It's May nineteenth. Why—" "May nineteenth, 2032," I finish for her. "Two months until July nineteenth. Check the calendar on the fridge. Check the generator fuel can outside. Check the rain barrels." "You're being dramatic, Cata." She laughs, but it sounds small. "The storms won't—" "Tell me the name of the storm that hits Harbor City in July," I interrupt. I keep my voice flat so she can't turn it into a joke. She frowns. "Storm names? I don't—" "Storm name: Leda. Two waves, not one. Power goes down for three weeks in the county. Markets close on day two. The rivers back up on day five." I drop the list like a stone. I need them to move before they assume I'm screaming for nothing. Valentina stirs. "Where are you getting this from?" I eat another swallow of soy milk. "From remembering." Three years compressed into a single mouthful. "I bought spare seeds last winter," I add, sliding a sealed packet across the table. "Those will sprout in pots. Dad needs to pull all cash out of the market this week. Yuri