While scrolling through my phone, I spotted a post Owen had just put up on social media.
Check it out—this is what real security looks like. No heatwave stands a chance against technology!
The video showed fans, refrigerators, and air conditioners crammed wall to wall inside Owen's tiny apartment.
I popped a slice of beef into my mouth and glanced at the clock.
Less than one minute until the heatwave hit.
In the blink of an eye, the sky—already dimming into evening—blazed white.
It had begun.
The indoor temperature shot to a hundred and four degrees.
Owen kept updating his feed nonstop.
Lesley and I are officially the smartest people alive. Thirteen ACs plus eighteen fans = a cool 72°F. Life is GOOD.
He posted a temperature update practically every hour, and every single time he made sure to tag me.
Three hours later, the temperature inside had soared to a hundred and forty degrees.
Owen called me.
His voice dripped with smugness on the other end of the line.
"So, Wanda—how much water have you gone through? Hope you haven't drowned yourself yet."
But before he could finish the sentence, a chain of sharp, crackling explosions erupted from the power lines outside.