When a grouchy old man slams the door on a persistent teen, he thinks he’s rid of her for good. But when a hurricane traps them together, the storm outside reveals the truth about her shocking connection to his past.

Frank had lived alone for many years. The quiet suited him, and he’d long accepted the absence of friends or family in his life. So, when he heard a knock at the door one Saturday morning, he was startled but more annoyed than curious.

With a heavy groan, he pushed himself out of his recliner. When he opened the door, he saw a teenage girl standing on the porch, no older than sixteen.

Before she could speak, Frank snapped, “I don’t want to buy anything, I don’t want to join any church, I don’t support homeless kids or kittens, and I’m not interested in environmental issues.” Without waiting for a response, he slammed the door shut.

He turned to leave but froze when the doorbell rang again. With a sigh, he shuffled back to his chair, grabbed the remote, and turned up the TV volume.

The weather report showed a hurricane warning for the city. Frank glanced at it briefly, then shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” he mumbled. His basement was built to withstand anything.

The doorbell didn’t stop. It kept ringing, over and over. Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. Each ring grated on Frank’s nerves. Finally, he stomped back to the door, muttering to himself. He flung it open with a scowl.

“What?! What do you want?!” he barked, his voice echoing down the quiet street.

The girl stood there, calm, her eyes fixed on him. “You’re Frank, right? I need to talk to you,” she said.

Frank narrowed his eyes. “Let’s say I am. Who are you, and why are you on my porch? Where are your parents?”

“My name is Zoe. My mom died recently. I don’t have any parents now,” she said, her voice steady.

“I couldn’t care less,” Frank snapped. He grabbed the edge of the door and started to push it closed.

Before it could shut, Zoe pressed her hand against it. “Aren’t you curious why I’m here?” she asked, her tone unwavering.

“The only thing I’m curious about,” Frank growled, “is how long it’ll take you to leave my property and never come back!” He shoved her hand off the door and slammed it so hard the frame rattled.

The doorbell stopped. Frank peered through the curtains, checking the yard. It was empty.

With a deep sigh, he turned away, feeling victorious. Little did he know, this was only the beginning of his nightmare.

The next morning, Frank woke up, grumbling as he dragged himself to the front door to grab his newspaper.

His jaw dropped when he saw the state of his house. Smashed eggs dripped down the walls, their sticky residue glinting in the sunlight.

Large, crude words were scrawled across the paint in messy black letters, making his blood boil.

“What in the world?!” he shouted, looking around the street, but it was empty.

Grinding his teeth, he stormed back inside, grabbed his cleaning supplies, and spent the entire day scrubbing.

His hands ached, his back throbbed, and he swore under his breath with every stroke.

By evening, exhausted but relieved to see the walls clean, he stepped onto his porch with a cup of tea.

But his relief was short-lived. Garbage was scattered across his yard—cans, old food, and torn papers littered the lawn.

“Stupid girl!” he shouted at no one in particular, his voice echoing through the quiet neighborhood.

He stomped down the steps, grabbed some trash bags, and began cleaning. As he bent to pick up a rotten tomato, his eyes caught a note taped to his mailbox.

He yanked it off and read aloud, “Just listen to me, and I’ll stop bothering you. —Zoe.” At the bottom, scrawled in bold numbers, was a phone number.

Frank crumpled the note and hurled it into the trash.

The next morning, loud shouting woke him. He looked outside to see a group of people waving signs.

“Who the hell are you?!” he yelled, opening the window.

“We’re here for the environment! Thanks for letting us use your yard!” a hippie-looking woman called.

Fuming, Frank grabbed a broom and chased them off. Once they were gone, he noticed a caricature of himself drawn on the driveway with the caption, “I hate everyone.”

On his front door was another note:

“Just listen to me, or I’ll come up with more ways to annoy you.

—Zoe.

P.S. The paint doesn’t wash off.”

And again at the bottom was a phone number.

Frank stormed inside, slamming the door behind him. He grabbed the phone and dialed Zoe’s number with shaking hands. “Come to my house. Now,” he barked and hung up before she could respond.

When Zoe arrived, her jaw dropped. Two police officers stood on the porch beside Frank, their expressions serious.

“What the—? Are you kidding me?!” Zoe shouted, glaring at him.

Frank folded his arms and smirked. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Guess what? You’re not.”

The officers cuffed Zoe. “You old jerk!” she yelled as they led her to the car. Frank watched, smug, believing this was the end of his troubles.

The next day, the city issued a hurricane warning. The winds howled, bending trees and tossing debris down the empty streets.

Frank looked out the window as he prepared to head for his basement. His eyes widened when he spotted Zoe outside, clutching her backpack and stumbling against the wind.

“What are you doing out there?!” Frank shouted, flinging open the door. The wind nearly tore it from his hand.

Zoe turned, her hair whipping around her face. “What does it look like?! I’m looking for shelter!” she yelled, her voice barely audible over the roar of the storm. “I have nowhere else to go!”

“Then come inside!” Frank barked, stepping onto the porch.

“No way!” Zoe snapped. “I’d rather face this hurricane than go in your house!”

Frank gritted his teeth. “You were desperate to talk to me yesterday. What changed now?”

“I realized you’re a selfish, grumpy idiot!” Zoe shot back.

Frank had enough. He stomped down the steps, grabbed her backpack, and hauled her toward the door.

“Let me go!” Zoe screamed, twisting against his grip. “I’m not going with you! Let me go!”

“Are you out of your mind?!” Frank bellowed, slamming the door behind them. “Stay out there, and you’ll die!”

“Maybe that’s fine! I have nothing left anyway! ” Zoe yelled, her face red. “And do you think your stupid house is some kind of fortress?!”

“My basement is fortified,” Frank growled. “It’s survived worse than this. Follow me.”

Zoe glared at him but hesitated. After a moment, she sighed and trudged after him toward the basement.

The basement was surprisingly cozy. It looked like a small, well-used living room. A single bed sat tucked in one corner, with shelves of old books lining the walls.