Bertrum had no idea what he could have done to draw the ire of the rain, or whom, or whatever was responsible for making the rain, but it was clear that he did something.

When he got into his car everything was dry. Cloudy, sure, but dry.

It was dry for the 15 miles he drove to the Valley Bridge Medical Center.

It was dry the entire time he searched for a spot to park amidst the sea of cars that carried the afflicted to this place.

It was only when his foot hit the hot pavement did the first drop fall. The one turned to many quickly and as he bent to sprint toward the building, the deluge came, blinding and heavy. The roar of the water hitting the cars surrounding him was much like the applause of an audience well entertained by his predicament. The faster he tried to go, the harder the rain came. Finally, he pushed through the door, breathing heavy and soaking wet.

Inside everyone looked at him, a brief distraction from their current woes. Standing there posed like a wet cat in shock.

Bertrum silently tried to gain some common understanding, if not sympathy, by turning his head and pointed a thumb toward the onslaught that befell him. A double take jarred his head when he realized the rain had stopped. The sun was beaming and already the walkways and tarmac were starting to dry.