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“The park hates us,” I scream as I grab her hand and we attempt to get back to whatever path we can.
“You’re the one who carved a tree.”
“Are you saying I triggered Armageddon?” The wind is harsh, visibility low and a large creepy figure is moving towards us.
“Jesus. Is it a mud monster?” Courtney yells into my ear.
“A golem? What’s the religion here? Who do we pray to? What’s the protocol?!” I yell, panicked I’m not prepared for this.
“Run!” Courtney yells.
“To or from him? And how?”
“I don’t know!”
The man is yelling at us and reaching out his hands. “Fuck it, if I’m going to die in Bangladesh, let it be at the hands of a mud monster and not quicksand in this water swamp. Hell, bring on the ROUSes.”
“That’s a Fire Swamp,” Courtney corrects me.
“I know! Buttercup. Move!”
The man reaches us, pulls us forward and is yelling in a language we don’t understand. I’m still clutching my camera bag.
He carries us by the scruff of our shirts and tosses us out of the park. He’s clapping and pointing to a building to the left. “Go. Go. Go. Go,” is all he says and then the wind knocks us sideways and the rain is a wall of water now.
We take steps toward the building with an overhang and realize it’s a park ranger station. We push the door open to screaming men and they join us in struggling to close the door against the wind.
There are six pairs of eyes staring at our bedraggled, muddy, wet faces.
“So, that’s a monsoon. Cool. Why do you live here?”
A man looks up at us and says, “Cloudburst. Monsoon different.”
Courtney leans back against the door as we both wipe the water and grime from our eyes. Someone hands us scratchy towels.
My sister clears her throat. “India.”
I shrug. “By boat?” Gesturing outside.
“We board a train tomorrow.”
“Train? Through India?” She nods and smiles.
I ask, “How did you know I’d find my tree?”
“If you found it, you’d be done, and if you didn’t, you’d be done.”
The pounding rain lightens as quickly as it came. The men take the towels from us and point to the door. My camera bag is remarkably dry inside, thank fancy fuck.
Court’s phone has a little rubber protector around it and is working perfectly. “What the hell?”
“Ben.” I nod. Her husband, the tech genius and ever the Boy Scout. We wave to the guys who are taking their spots behind desks and milling about their day like this is normal.
“What is even happening?”
We step onto the waterlogged flash flooded street. We wade to the middle of the street that’s higher ground. The rain is light but clearing. People resume their lives as if nothing happened. A chicken floats by and I grab Court’s phone to capture that picture.
My feet feel heavy as they carry all the water in them. The humidity isn’t quite as bad but each step is a trog through water.
