I stood there, watching the storm, wondering exactly what I could do about it. A hungover storm was not something I was quite prepared to handle; I had gotten my license about three weeks ago, and had yet to deal with a storm quite this rowdy. The academy had supplied me with a field reference guide, but the chapter on dealing with storms with all three sheets to the wind was horrifyingly inadequate.
Billy stood next to me, looking a little impatient. He was trying hard to hide it; I think he had a pretty good idea of how difficult storm wrangling was, but he wanted this squall off of his barn so he could get to his cattle. I desperately wished none had died of fright.
I stared at the page in my manual, willing it to hold more information. When my wishes didn't produce any more words on the page, I slammed it shut. Although I hadn't spent one minute inside of a church in the past seventeen years, I tried my hand at praying anyway. Maybe, out of the multitude of gods available, one of them would take a little pity on a very green storm wrangler who was having to deal with a storm who was starting to look at little green around the gills.
I quickly changed my prayer, hoping against hope the storm wouldn't puke. It was the only thing that could make this afternoon worse, I was sure. Then I would have to deal with a drunk storm and a flash flood. Probably also a handful of recently drowned cow corpses.
As I stepped forward, my Wellies squelching very unprofessionally in the mud, I began to hate my job.