"Nobody knows the sound of rain like I do," Clara murmurs, her hand stretching through the half-open window of the rattly Ford sedan. Droplets streak past at 40 mph, misting her pale face and unkempt hair. She shuts her eyes, tilting her head to the hiss of water on the road. "It’s calling me," she says, her voice light with a deep, satisfied breath.

          The 23-year-old college student pulls her hand inside, her eyes bright, and turns to her Uber driver. "This is typical weather for June, right? Do you enjoy these storms?" She lifts a formal-looking notebook—black leatherette, titled Clara Voss - Extreme Rainfall Events: Trends and Atmospheric Drivers in the Northern Plains, 2022 in her careful, silver-marker script. Worn edges frame thick, gilt-edged pages, giving it a sturdy, scholarly heft despite its personal touch.

          Sam, a grizzled man in his 40s wearing a faded flannel shirt, grips the steering wheel with both hands. He flicks a sideways glance at the notebook, then meets Clara’s restless gaze. "Yeah. It’s alright," he grunts, eyes snapping back to the road as windshield wipers slap rhythmically against the drizzle. The sedan trundles past blurred fields, edges of the town of Minot looming ahead through the gray curtain of rain.

          Clara nods, her thin eyebrows knitting with focus as she opens the notebook and scratches a few lines with her pen. "But it could be depressing, for some?" She glances out the window, rain streaking the glass, then returns to her scribbling.

          Sam shrugs. "It helps me sleep. Keeps the air clean. My wife hates me driving in it when it gets heavy, though." He pauses, then adds, "You’re really into this rain stuff, huh?"

          Clara glances at him, lips quirking briefly at his words. She flips through her notebook, pausing at a section of notes. “Come closer, let me pour my voice upon you—stay, and hear what falls from sky to soul,” she murmurs under her breath, the words blending with the patter on the roof. She taps the page absently, tilting her head toward the window, as if the rain’s hum should explain it all. Then, with a quiet nod, she carefully closes the notebook, resting her pen atop it in her lap, her hands still as she gazes out at the streaking drops with a faint, contented smile.

          The few miles to the Souris River’s quiet banks roll by in silence, the rain’s babbling filling the space between them.

. . . . .

Ward County Sheriff’s Department Evidence Log - Item #47: Airbnb Host Journal

Submitted as evidence in the investigation of the weather-related accident on June 20, 2022, at 1423 Souris Lane, Minot, ND. Recovered from the residence of Edward and Lila Brant, adjacent property owners, following injuries sustained by Clara Voss. This spiral-bound notebook, titled “Airbnb Host Journal,” measures 5x7 inches, with entries detailing guest activities. Pages contain dates, payment notes, and observations, penned by Lila Brant, spanning June 9–20, 2022, before the accident.

Airbnb Host Journal

Lila Brant, 1425 Souris Lane, Minot, ND

Thu, June 9, 2022

New gal checked in today—Clara Voss, booked for five nights. Ed and I met her on the porch. Polite, said she’s here for “research,” clutching a black notebook like a lifeline. Had a crate of “weather tracking supplies”—looked like junk to me, but I didn’t pry. Ed handed her the welcome envelope—house rules, Wi-Fi code, the usual—while I warned her about the creek swelling this time of year. June’s a soaker, and that tin roof sings when it rains. She nodded, all serious, then scurried inside. Odd duck, but quiet. Ed says she’ll be no trouble.

Fri, June 10, 2022

Caught sight of Clara under the cottage roof this morning, sitting in the drizzle an hour. Rain’s steady, notebook out, scribbling—keeps staring at that oak, still as stone. I watched from the kitchen, sipping coffee, thinking it’s peculiar for a girl her age to sit out like that. “She’s nuts,” Ed grunted, “like that gal with the chickens.” I shushed him—“least she ain’t clucking.” She’s paid up, not bothering us.

Sat, June 11, 2022

Clara took off at 1:10 p.m., north toward town on foot, wearing a flimsy hooded windbreaker that barely counts as a raincoat. Came back at 3:30 with Minot Hardware Depot bags. What’s a “researcher” need from hardware? Weird gear, I bet.

Sun, June 12, 2022

Well, now I’ve seen it all. Clara’s out there collecting rain in jars—little glass ones, lined up neat as you please along the porch railing. Humming, too, some tune I couldn’t catch over the drip-drip on the tin. I texted her, “You okay?”—figured it’s the neighborly thing. She shot back, “Listening to patterns.” Patterns? In rain? I told Ed, and he just rolled his eyes. “City folk,” he muttered. Still, it’s eerie, her out there like that, pale hands steady with those jars.

Mon, June 13, 2022

Clara extended her stay five days—till the 18th—for “fieldwork.” Cash hit the account, so I can’t complain. Tonight, she ate under the roof, notebook open, smiling at the rain an hour straight. Ed says she’s loony.

Tue, June 14, 2022

Spent half the day watching Clara shift those jars around the yard like chess pieces, listening close, scribbling. Satisfied, she hauled them inside. What’s she doing with all that water? Ed told me it’s like she’s talking to it. I think he’s the loony one.

Wed, June 15, 2022

Ed spotted her last night, swaying in the yard—rain-soaked, no coat, thin shirt clinging to her bony frame. Pitch dark, past nine, and she’s out there, staring up at the sky, green eyes wild in the wet. “She’s off her rocker,” he grumbled, “forty years here, never seen this.” Gives me shivers. I nodded—“you’re right for once.”

Thu, June 16, 2022

Clara’s building something now—wires, a pipe, a funnel-looking thing. Saw her tinkering on the porch, then she hoofed it to town again. Came back from Minot Hardware Depot with a hammer, no less! She’s got that notebook propped open, muttering over it like it’s giving her orders. What’s a “researcher” need with a contraption like that anyway? I’m half-curious, half-spooked.

Sat, June 18, 2022

Clara texted: “Storm’s heavy, airport’s shut, need 2 more days.” Rain’s pounding, creek’s up—I said okay, money’s money. But I don’t like it. She’s too quiet—prowling ‘round that oak this afternoon, then springs up it, perched stock-still ten minutes, a pale shape in the wet, before strolling off. Ed growled, “She’s trouble, Lila—gonna wreck us yet.” I forced a laugh—“Oh, Ed, she’s just odd, not the end of us.” Still, my stomach’s knotting—hope I’m right, but those eyes of hers don’t sit easy.

Sun, June 19, 2022

Didn’t catch a glimpse of her all day. No porch sitting, no fussing with those jars, just left ‘em scattered out there forgotten, one tipped and spilling into the grass. Cottage lights are blazing late, though, and I hear banging, sharp little thumps like she’s whacking that funnel contraption of hers. She’s cooking up some mess in there, and if she’s wrecking my place, I’ll have her out on her ear. Half a mind to call the sheriff and let ‘em sort her nonsense before it’s too late.

Mon, June 20, 2022

Lord help us, it’s gone wrong. Storm hit hard tonight—thunder rattling the windows. Ed and I saw Clara climb the cottage roof, waving that twisted rain-catcher thing like a lunatic, gripping the TV antenna with one hand. She’s screaming at the sky—“I hear you, Mama!”—hair plastered to her face, soaked through. We ran out, yelling at her to get down, but she didn’t hear us over the roar. I spotted her notebook in the mud below, pages flapping. Then—crack!—lightning hits the antenna, lighting her silhouette. She falls hard to the tin roof, limp. Ed dialed 911. Ambulance came quick, hauling her off, that notebook left in the yard. I can’t stop hearing her voice. What was she after?

. . . . .

          Rain mists the second-floor balcony of Trinity Health Hospital, smearing Minot’s skyline into a gray haze. Nurse Tammy Olson stands at the railing, just out of rain’s reach, a sturdy woman in her fifties, graying hair in a tight bun, her uniform marred with coffee stains from a long shift nearing its end. She drags on a cigarette, exhaling smoke into the downpour, tired eyes squinting at the wet blur. With a flick, she sends the glowing ember arcing into the rain’s damp shroud and trudges inside.

          In the waiting room, a vending machine hums faintly. Tammy picks up her barely touched cup, takes a sip of the cold coffee, and glances at the doctor seated there—hollowed out, glasses fogged, mud-stained notebook open in his lap. She sinks into the chair beside him, cup clasped in both hands. “She’s been through hell, hasn’t she?”

          Dr. Randal Hagen looks up, older tonight than his years, worn by late hours and ghosts of patients past. He knows Clara—from twelve to twenty, she spilled her restless mind into his care. They stopped meeting three years ago, and he hasn’t seen her since—not until this storm dragged her back. “It looks as if she was staying at the very house where her parents died in the 2011 flood,” he explains, voice low with care. “During our sessions, Clara would recount those days like a story she’d been told, not something she’d lived. When she was twelve, rescue crews found her in the big oak out back, alone, starving, clinging to branches in the cold. Can imagine the guilt and loss she has felt.”

          “How horrible,” Tammy murmurs, her tone soft, thumb tracing the cup’s rim. “They say she was yelling at the rain up there—reaching for them?”

          Hagen pauses, her words sinking in, and flips through the notebook. “She’s no college student—this isn’t research. It’s a reused shell, stuffed with her madness—half diary entries, chasing ghosts she lost. Look here.” He tilts it toward Tammy, pointing to the last dozen pages—random scribbles: waves repeating, a diagram labeled To speak with the rain. “This tracks her unraveling, step by step.”

          His eyes glaze with regret, a sigh escaping. “I thought she was better when we ended our sessions. Obviously I was wrong.”

          The rain’s patter swells, a mournful chorus echoing Clara’s cries. The weight of the moment settles between the two caregivers.

         Tammy sets her still-unfinished coffee down and rises stiffly. “I’ve got rounds,” she mutters, then pauses. She rests a firm hand on Hagen’s arm and warns, “The wounds are bad—burns mostly. She’s hanging on.” Her eyes hold his a moment, steady; then she turns and shuffles off down the hall.

          Notebook in hand, Hagen knocks and enters Clara’s room—a stark beige box with a bolted chair, muted TV high up, whiteboard of meds. No cards, no flowers, just a pitcher and cup, untouched.

         “The sound of the rain!” Clara exclaims as he steps in. She lies propped in a narrow bed, pale skin near-translucent, burns snaking up her bandaged arm—stained faintly—and a thinner wrap on her neck. Greasy hair spills across the pillow framing a face taut with loss yet eased, as if the rain’s call stills. A faint smile ghosts her lips, a whisper of peace in her gaze.

          Hagen’s presence tethers her past, lifting his guilt a fraction, a steady gaze meeting hers. “You got to say goodbye, didn’t you?” he says softly, nodding to the notebook—her bridge to the rain’s song. Clara’s eyes widen briefly, a flicker of memory breaking through. Fresh tears stream down her cheeks. She traces rivulets racing down the window, calm now, her voice steady. “Nobody knows the sound of rain like I do.”