My first tornado warning, I did what my phone said. Then I did extra. I stood in my bathtub wearing a bicycle helmet I do not remember buying.Someone banged on my door. Mr. Patterson from next door, standing in the wind: "You don't have a basement. Come on."He did not wait for an answer. "Come on" was the entire invitation, and also the entire argument.Their basement was ready the way things are ready when they happen every year. Camping chairs. A lantern. A radio older than me. Mrs. Patterson held out a metal tin labeled TORNADO CANDY in faded marker. The candy gets replaced, I learned. The tin is eternal.Their kids did homework as if the sky were not attempting crimes. The dog slept.I sat between strangers in a camping chair while the sirens sang, and the Pattersons argued gently about whether the 2019 one was worse, and somebody put a butterscotch in my hand.The storm passed over us and took nothing.Now, when the sirens start, my phone buzzes before the county alert does."Basement's open."There is a fourth camping chair down there this year. It was not there last spring. Nobody has mentioned it.