“Sonny,” he says, “you’re a woman of science. You darn well know you can’t change a forecast even if you wanted to, right? You may want the weekend to be sunny and beautiful, but if it’s going to rain it’s going to rain. And you have to be honest about that.”

“Life isn’t a forecast, though, Mason,” I say, my voice low.

“No, it’s not, but you can predict the weather a whole lot more accurately than you can predict life,” he says. Mason looks at me for the longest time. “Why don’t you try living for once the same way that you approach your forecasts: just take it a day, or a week, at a time. See how that goes.”

I look out the windows. “It’s snowing,” I say in a deadpan.

“Perfect time to see that snow in a new light then.”

I change the subject. “So, what’s Mason’s perfect chili?” I ask. “Not a lot of chili in the desert. It’s not your go-to meal when it’s a hundred degrees.”

“Funny you should say that because I call it Mason’s Hot and Bothered.”

“You do not!” I laugh.

“I do, too, and it’s a guarded secret. I can’t tell you. I could make it for you, though, if I respect your judging skills tonight.”

“Challenge accepted,” I say.

A young man with a hipster beard in a TC Brew Co. hoodie jumps on the bar with a mic. “Welcome to the Twelfth Annual Traverse City Winter Chili Cook-off!” People stop sipping their beers and look up.

“I’m Trav Charles, this is my restaurant—get it? TC for me and Traverse City? I’m so clever—and these are my rules,” he says to laughter. “Actually, the rules are set by my man Mason, who’s right over there. Mason, give a wave.”

Mason stands and salutes the crowd.

“Mason is the head of the chamber around here, and he’s the man that organizes all the winter activities we love that keep us sane,” Trav says. “He’s also one of the judges, and he set the rules, so any problems you have with the final results, talk to him, not me.”

I laugh, and Mason points at me.

“Or you can blame Sonny Dunes, the new meteorologist at TRVC-8.”

People cheer me with their beers.

“But don’t make her mad,” Trav continues. “You’ve all probably seen the viral video of what happens when you do.”

The crowd goes crazy.

“And if Sonny goes funny then blame her boss, TRVC news director and longtime Traverse resident Lisa Kirk.”

The crowd applauds.

Servers bring out trays of chili in ramekins, along with glasses of beer. In front of each ramekin is a number. A scoring sheet and pencil are handed out to the judges.

“Each restaurant has paired a beer to go along with its chili,” Trav announces. “That is part of the overall presentation. Most points will be awarded for taste, followed by overall presentation: how the chili looks and smells, how it is—or how it’s not—garnished, and how the beer pairs with each dish. While the judges eat and drink, so will you! Belly up to the bar!”

People crowd forward for bowls of chili, and I look at Mason as trays of ramekins are set down in front of us.

He lifts his glass and his spoon. “Cheers!” he says to me and Lisa, tapping our glasses with his, before doing the same with his spoon. He looks at us as if we are going to reciprocate his gesture with one another. We do not.

I eye the tiny bowls of chili before me. They are as different in color as the beers.

“Number one,” I say out loud. “Here we go!”

I lift my spoon and taste. “Oh, my gosh. This is delicious.” I look at Mason, my eyes grow wide, and my tongue feels as if it’s on fire. My eyes water, and I reach for the beer. I down it in one gulp, and I hear cheers. I look up, and a group of young adults is recording me, laughing hard at my reaction.

“Hotter than the weather,” I say.

“This is a five-alarm chili,” Mason says. “Some call it Dragon’s Breath Chili or Hellfire Chili, but it’s made with habaneros, and it is H-O-T hot.”

“Just like me,” I joke, winking at him.

Mason looks at me. “You beat me to the punch.”

My eyes grow wide and continue to water. “No need to cry about it,” Mason says, matching my wink.

I progress through each bowl of chili, Mason knowing exactly what we’re tasting without a name or recipe in front of us.

“Chili con carne, or Texas Red,” Mason comments on the next one. “Chunks of beef, cumin-spiked sauce made from red chilies. Oh, and this is Cincinnati-style chili. We serve this type of chili a lot on our Coneys in Michigan, especially in Detroit. This is Chili Four-Ways—chili over spaghetti with cheese and onions.”

We continue through a white chili, a tomatillo-y chili verde, a vegetarian chili, and a chili with so many beans, I bloat like a balloon immediately. I realize that by the end of our tasting, I’ve drank nearly every beer accompanying the chili.

“I have to do a live broadcast,” I say out loud. “Am I slurring?”

“No more than usual,” Mason says. “What was your favorite?”

“Secret ballot,” I say, before leaning over to whisper, “Chili verde for me.”

“Good choice,” he says. “I think I can have you over for dinner. Real date. At night. At my house.”

“Which did you choose?” I ask.

“The habanero,” he says, his voice huskier than normal. “I like it hot.”

My face flushes when he looks into my eyes, and all of a sudden I want to dive into his blue, blue eyes to cool off. Instead, I say, “Then you’re in the wrong state.”

He laughs.

Deflection, my old friend.

“What about you?”

I lean forward on the table to engage Lisa. I can feel the beer coursing through my bloodstream.

“I probably like the one you despise,” Lisa says.

Mason makes a face and mouths, Ouch.

“I doubt that,” I say to her. “We have more in common than you know.”

I lean back in my chair and hand Trav my tally sheet when he comes by to collect them. He sets down yet another beer in front of me.

“It’s called Sunny Days,” he says. “It’s blonde but has a punch to it. Like you.”

Mason laughs.

“If you enjoy it, I might rename it Sonny Dunes.”

I take a sip, and my face lights up. “I think we have a deal.”

Icicle approaches and says, “I’m set up outside for our live shot at nine. You ready?”

I take another sip of my beer. “Now I am.”

I stand, grabbing the beer and a half-eaten ramekin of chili, and Lisa waits a beat before she stands up and follows me outside. Icicle has the camera focused on the open door of TC Brew Co. I take a look through the lens. The restaurant, bright and happy, bustles in the background while snow falls steadily on the street. A huge billboard announcing the 12th Annual Traverse City Winter Chili Cook-off! is in the corner of the shot.

“Nice, Ice,” I say.

“Thanks, Sonny.”

Lisa is on her cell. “We’ll be ready to go in about a minute.”

Some people spill onto the street and some cross over from the theater. People are fascinated by TV cameras. They flock to them like moths to a flame, and yet they mostly act like fools in front of them, waving, smiling, shouting to their moms or girlfriends, or—too often today—screaming at us.

I take my position in front of the restaurant, position the beer and chili just-so in front of my body and wait for Icicle to give me a count. When he points at me, I become Sonny, even in the snow.

“Hi, northern Michigan, this is Sonny Dunes coming live to you tonight from Front Street and TC Brew Co. where—as you can see behind me—it’s packed for the Twelfth Annual Winter Chili Cook-off. This is another segment of Sonny in the Winter and, although it may be cold outside tonight, it’s warm in there, and in my tummy. Thank goodness, I have something cool to wash it all down.” I hold up my beer and take a sip, and people clap behind me. “If you’re out and about, come on down and join us. I’ll be here, and after a few more of these, which TC Brew Co. has now named after yours truly, I might just make my own pot of chili. Wanna help me stir the pot? My snowy, seven-day forecast coming up in fifteen minutes. Back to you in the studio!”

“And we’re clear,” Icicle calls.

I take off my mic and remove the clip on the waistband of my slacks, and hand them to Icicle.

“Nice,” Lisa says, her voice colder than the temperature.

“Thanks,” I say, turning to head back inside to get warm.

“Did you believe a word you were saying?”

I turn to look at Lisa.

“Look,” I start.

“Watch it,” Icicle says, gesturing around with his head. People are holding their phones, beginning to record our tiff.

I smile and mouth, Thanks.

We head back inside and take a seat. Within minutes, Trav jumps back up on the bar and hushes the crowd. “We have our results! It was a very close contest, but I can now announce that the winner is the Chili Verde from Tres Hermanos here on Front Street! Congrats!” Trav holds up a trophy of a giant bowl with a spoon sticking out from it, and an older man comes forward to grab the trophy. He holds it up as the crowd whoops and applauds, and high-fives people as he returns to celebrate at a table serving his chili in the back.

I turn to look at Mason. “I got outvoted, it seems,” he says.

I look at Lisa. “Good taste,” I say.

“In most things,” she responds. “Lisa, I think we need to talk.” I stop. “No, I want to talk to you, okay?”

She nods, barely.

Icicle appears again. “Time for your forecast.”

We all head back out once again, and I position myself in front of the restaurant.

A crowd gathers yet again, but this time, I notice, there are more people. Some are tittering, some pointing at me, most looking at their cells and then looking at me.

“That’s her,” a woman in a North Face jacket says. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“For what?” I ask.

That’s when I hear my voice coming from the phone.

“What is that?”

The man she is with holds out his cell.

“Don’t ever do that again!” I am yelling at the two little girls I saw while snowshoeing with Icicle. “Ever!”

The little girl who played the trick on her sister begins to cry.

“What are you doing?” the mom says, pulling her scared, little girl into her arms.

“I will never be a hero,” I say.

The video has been edited, just like the one that circulated when I was cardboard sledding.

The next clip makes it look as if I’ve stolen Art’s prized fish—the one I caught—and released it without his permission. His kind face looks shocked. “Why’d you do that?” he asks. And then there is footage of me racing out of the shanty as if I’m fleeing the scene of a crime.

I look at Icicle. “Did you do this?”

“No!” he says, his expression serious. “I would never do that, Sonny.”

“What about you?” I turn to Lisa.

“Sonny, we may have our differences, but my job is on the line here. I would never do this to you.”

“I can’t trust anyone around here.” I turn and look at the crowd. “What are you all looking at?”

Cell phones are trained on me. No one moves.

Icicle’s eyes are wide. He is pointing at me. I realize too late we’re live.

“You all want Sonny to lose it on air again, don’t you?” I say to the camera. I look around at the bystanders. “Don’t you?” The crowd goes quiet. Cell phones—like the camera itself—are pointed directly at me. For a moment, I’m a kid again, and I’m on summer vacation with my family in Florida. I feel like Lucy, the dolphin I saw at a water park as a girl. Lucy performed when asked, and her sweet little face looked so happy, but when I took a picture with her and stared into her beautiful eyes, she looked so sad. And when I gave her a treat and she spoke to me as cameras flashed, I could swear she said, “I don’t belong here.”

I take a deep breath and look into the camera.

“What do any of you actually know about me? What do you know about anyone who’s on TV? You have a perception of who we are based on what you see on a screen in your living room. But that’s only a fragment of who we are. You don’t know anything about me. What I’ve experienced in my life. You see what you want to see. You believe what you want to believe. And I will never be able to change your mind.”

All around me, people are watching, taping, gaping. Some giggle, some stand in silence. My eyes veer to a woman who is playing the viral videos of me to her friends. I walk over to her.

“Do you want to know why I went to journalism school and became a meteorologist?” I ask this stranger. “Because I thought I could save someone’s life. Because it used to be the news was all based on fact. Now, we’re obsessed with social media that’s neither social nor media. We believe what ‘influencers’ tell us to believe and no longer think critically for ourselves. It’s not only sad, it’s a shame. What you’re seeing is a lie.”

I turn back to the camera.

“What do you believe, folks?” I stare into the camera. “And, big surprise, it’s going to snow for the next seven days. Until we meet again, have a Sonny day, northern Michigan!”

I pull off my mic. Icicle is staring at me openmouthed. Lisa is just behind him, her face whiter than the falling snow. I walk away. My walk turns into a jog, which turns into a full-out sprint.

“Sonny!”

Mason’s voice shatters the cold silence.

“Don’t run!” he yells, his voice filled with emotion. “Please!”

I don’t turn around.

I’m an expert at running away.