Page 3 of Protected from Torment

Turning my thoughts to something more pleasant, I muse, When I get home on Sunday night, maybe I’ll treat myself with delivery. Some lo mein, sweet and sour chicken, and crab Rangoon, plus some extra fortune cookies for Oscar to munch on. I know I’m not supposed to feed Oscar people food, and I don’t, as a rule. But if I’m going to treat myself, shouldn’t he get a treat, too? Especially after I dumped him off at the dog hotel for the weekend?

Okay, dumped isn’t quite accurate. And it’s not like I left him at some hovel. The dog hotel is nicer than most hotels I’ve stayed at, with luxury rooms complete with actual beds and TVs playing videos of squirrels and chipmunks, and a private outdoor area to do their business. You can pay to have the employees read your dog a bedtime story, for Pete’s sake.

No, I don’t think Oscar can understand the books they’re reading. But did I pay extra for the service, anyway? Yes. I did.

My mom likes to tease me about that. “Melly, you spend more on that dog of yours than you do on yourself. The toys and special food and the handmade sweaters you buy off Etsy… That dog is more spoiled than any I’ve met.”

Maybe he is spoiled. But I don’t care. Without Oscar, I’d still be the mess I was two years ago, instead of the mostly-functional person I am now. And I love him dearly. So if I want to spend an exorbitant amount of money on a fresh-cooked dog food subscription or bespoke knit doggie sweaters for every holiday, I will.

I’m just reaching for the volume dial so I can hear the radio over the sound of the wipers and the drumming rain when a metallic crash breaks through the noise.

My heart jumps to my throat.

A second later, a car horn blares.

It’s not a short, indignant blast from an impatient driver. It’s long and droning, like a desperate call for help.

My foot twitches on the gas; my body instinctively wanting to move faster. To discover the source of the violent sounds and see if anyone needs help. But logic prevails, reminding me that I’d rather not end up in the same position. And that the few seconds I might save by speeding up won’t make a difference.

Unless the person is terribly wounded, that is. If their femoral artery was severed, they could bleed out in minutes. Or if the road flooded, and their car is caught⁠—

Crap.

My foot presses down on the gas again.

My tires skid a little as I round the curve, but I wrestle them into submission.

Through the rain, I spot the glow of taillights, but they’re not at the right angle. And as I drive closer, I realize why. The car that just passed me only minutes before isn’t on the road anymore, but wedged into the trees to the side of it.

Double crap.

Impatient driver or not, they didn’t deserve to get into an accident.

Putting on my hazards, I keep driving, closing the distance between me and the car. The SUV behind me keeps pace, and a quick glance in the rear view mirror shows the reflection of his hazards on the rain-slicked road.

As soon as I’m close enough to spot the New Jersey plate on the back of the car, I pull off to the side of the road and shift into park. Through the rain, the taillights glow eerily. The horn is still blaring.

Before I do anything else, I call 911, quickly telling the operator my location and what I can see. Without giving myself time to debate it, I push the door open and venture out into the storm.

I have to, I reason. I can’t just stay in my car, waiting for help to come along. Around here, it could take emergency services valuable time the driver—or passenger—doesn’t have. So it looks like I’m their only option for now.

Ending my call, I shove my phone into my pocket and glance both ways along the road before crossing it. To my left, there’s just the driver behind me, who appears to have pulled over as well. And to my right, there’s⁠—

Oh, CRAP.

Breaking into a jog, I run towards the second set of taillights.

This car didn’t go off the road. It’s in the water, instead.

Water that’s cutting across Route 30, a road that’s been flooded out before.

Water that’s already midway up the car doors, trapping the passengers inside.

Water that could be deadly. Because I know just how dangerous these floods can be. Long Lake has suffered catastrophic road failures before, caused by dam failures and heavy rain, just like we’re getting right now.

Fear flutters in my stomach, both for the passengers and myself.

Helping them puts me at risk, both from the floodwaters and an oncoming driver who isn’t paying attention. I could get hit by a car while I’m trying to help. Or dragged into the rushing current, myself.