The Storm on Everest

One night, a streak of red came blazing down from the sky and struck the very top of Mount Everest. It hit the summit like lightning — bright, fast, and gone in an instant.

And something woke up.

He was red and fuzzy, with a glow that pulsed like a heartbeat. He blinked. Looked at his hands. Looked at the mountain around him — the ice, the wind, the dark sky above. He felt the cold and didn't mind it. He felt something else too: a pull. A sense that somewhere nearby, something needed to happen fast.

His name was Razzle. And fast was exactly his thing.

Far below, near the base of the mountain, a young monk was carrying firewood to the monastery. It was nearly dark. The other monks had gone inside an hour ago. Tenzin had stayed out to finish the last load.

He set the wood down and looked up. The sky to the west had changed. Dark clouds were building fast — too fast. The kind of clouds that didn't wait. Wind was already pulling at his robes. A storm was coming, and it was coming now.

But the monastery's outer door was still open. The storm shutters on the east windows were unlatched. The fire in the main hall was burning too high. Three things, all at once, all needing to happen right now.

He stood frozen for just a second. He was a little afraid, afraid that he wouldn't be able to fix it. He didn't know what to do, where to start.

Then something changed in the air around him. A warmth, sharp and certain, like standing next to a bright, red lantern. It moved — pulling toward the door first, strong and clear, like a hand on his shoulder pointing the way. He ran to the door and threw it shut. Latched it.

The warmth shifted. East windows now. He ran, unlatched shutters banging in the rising wind, slamming them closed one by one. His fingers were cold but they moved fast and sure.

Last — the fire. He grabbed the iron poker and spread the logs apart, dropping the flames to a steady burn just as the first crack of thunder shook the walls.

He stood in the middle of the hall, breathing hard. The storm hit the monastery like a fist. But the door held. The shutters held. The fire burned steady and low.

Tenzin looked around the quiet hall. He didn't know what had come over him. He had just — known what to do. Known it fast and certain, without thinking.

High above, Razzle drifted back up through the clouds, his red glow softening. The storm churned below him. The monastery sat solid in the middle of it. He smiled. Pulsed once, bright red against the dark sky.

Then he noticed the woman washing clothes at the river in the town a few miles away. The storm was headed her way. She hadn't even noticed it yet. She needed to get inside, fast. Fast was Razzle's thing.

He zoomed down the mountain.