My eyes snap open. I swing stiff legs off my bed and onto the rough floor. As I adjust to the light, I notice a message on my bedside table: You were in a coma, honey. Welcome to 2097. Jesus, I was sixteen in 2051. I rush into my empty kitchen, and onto my porch. A soft pitter-patter of rain taps on the roof. At least the rain is the same after forty-six years. The rain falls harder as I hear a shout in the distance: “Grandma! No, come back! It’ll kill you! Grandma!” The voice breaks down in sobs.

I grab my umbrella —still in its place by the high heels— and rush out onto the gravel. The splash of rain in puddles rejuvenates me as I skip along the road. A voice from one of the houses halts me. “Girl, are you crazy? Get inside now! The rain will kill you—Hurry!” I roll my eyes. No crazy lady will squander my good mood.

I start to hum: I’m singing in the rain, just singing in the rain. What a glorious feeling, I’m happy again— I stop, and I listen. A soft sizzle comes from above. I glance up just in time to see a big hole in my umbrella and feel a raindrop fall on my forehead. I scream and collapse onto the ground. My umbrella flies away as I writhe in pain. The rain burns my skin and trickles into my eyes. All goes fuzzy, then black.

On channel R586, this is the Q-I weather report. I am John Down, and today a storm with a record-high acidity level blew through Freeport, Maine, killing two people. One was seventy-five-year-old Linda Stredrinski and sixteen-year-old Riley Green. Rest in peace.