Nonfiction | March 01, 2008

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After Eric and I survived an F2 tornado in Tulia, Texas, I thought we’d live forever. We rode out the tornado in a high-profile SUV-precisely the wrong kind of shelter-and after we’d crashed into a brick wall and ducked under a one-hundredtwenty-knot jet that screamed through the blown-out windows, it seemed as if the Angel of Death had roared, in a breath choked with debris, and then fled, leaving us alone and lucky.

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