Like he knows we’re doomed, no matter what we do next. And all he has to do is keep us in sight.
“Night running is not recommended on any stretch of river, particularly in Class-Three or higher rapids. Visibility is compromised, reaction time is reduced, and rescue becomes exponentially more difficult.”
—The River Guide’s Almanac
20
Our raft picks up speed as we row together, cutting across the river, aiming for that splashing figure at the end of the tree branch.
From the swift pull of the current, I can tell we won’t have more than a second to pause alongside her. If we don’t approach at precisely the right angle—and if we don’t get close enough—we’ll fly past her, with no hope of rowing back upstream.
We haveoneshot to rescue this woman.
Between the distance and the darkness, I can’t tell who it is. “Can you swim?” I call to her, hating that Bryan will be able to hear what I’m saying, too.
He must know she’s there now: a fifth survivor.
And if we miss our chance to save her, he’ll come from behind and make sure the number of survivors goes back down to four.
“No—my life jacket—it’s … it’s caught.” The sentence is broken, her voice fraying at the edges. She fights to keep her head above water, the tree branch jerking up and down in the powerful current, shaking her like a rag doll. Her face dunks beneath the surface again and again.
We’re ten yards away from her now.
Then nine, then eight. I still can’t tell who the woman is.
Bryan is closing the gap, too. He’s dropped the Michael Myers act and is rowing in earnest, now that he’s sighted the woman caught on the tree branch. Maybe fifty yards behind us and approaching fast.
We’ll have seconds to save her, at most.
I finally catch a glimpse of the back strap of her life jacket, twisted around the thick, partially submerged tree branch. There’s no way we’re going to be able to untangle that in the brief window we’ll have as the raft cruises by her. The branch is broad, too—no way we’ll be able to break it. I try to think fast, but panic claws its way up my throat.
I dig my paddle into the river and pull hard. “Steer along the left of the tree!” I hiss to Deborah and the others—just close enough to reach her, but not so close that we’ll hit the trunk and get trapped behind the dangerous obstacle. If we approach the tree at the wrong angle, we’ll get stuck. Then we’ll be sitting ducks, just like the woman on the branch, waiting for Bryan to come finish the job. Or we’ll topple the raft and be at the mercy of the cold, dark rapids.
The seriousness of the situation floods me with dread. The likelihood of saving her seems so low, it’s almost stupid to try. I’m going to have to look in her eyes and then leave her to Bryan’s knife.
“Tell her to take off the life jacket,”Parker whispers in my ear again, his calm, steady presence radiating beside me, completely at odds with the chaos of this nightmare.
This time, I don’t question his voice, his presence. I just blurt out the words in my head, calling to the woman, “Can you unbuckle your life jacket?”
We’re six yards away now, then five.
She hesitates. “Y—yes.” The river pushes her head underwater and she sputters, gasping for air. “I’m hurt, though—can’t—swim.”
Four yards. Three yards.
“Do it! Do it now,” I beg, praying we can grab her.
With an anguished cry, the woman thrusts one hand above the water’s surface and claws at the front of her life vest, grasping for the buckles.
Two yards.
One.
This is our only chance. I recognize the woman and her custom purple life jacket now, but can’t for the life of me remember her name. She showed me photos of her twin boys. She was wearing a headscarf before, but now I can see her close-cropped, tight black curls.
“Allie, Pam, grab her!” I cry as the raft moves into position.
Both women already have their arms outstretched over the left side, reaching. “Imani!” Allie gasps.
