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Thank God I brought my medical kit up to the third-floor bedroom along with my backpack when we rolled up in Old Bessy a few days ago.
“Oh no,” I croak, the words ripping past the lump in my throat.
It’s like a part of me already knows, even before I hobble to the window to peer out over the gravel parking area.
It already knows what’s about to be lost…
“No!” I press my hand to the cold, rain-streaked glass, my eyes filling as I watch Bessy—my orange-and-white-striped VW van, my home, my escape partner, the friend who carried me into the world to find myself and Pippa Jane and all the adventures along the way—be swept away.
I watch until she drifts into the angry surge of the river proper and close my eyes with a wince.
When I open them again, she’s gone.
Pippa Jane presses closer to my thigh with a soft grunt. I crouch down, pulling her into my arms and burying my face in her coarse scruff. “Oh, Pips. What are we going to do? Everything was in there. Everything.”
My thoughts race, building an ever-more-heart-wrenching list. My passport, my journals from the past fifteen years, my sketches and watercolor drawings, gifts from friends, the turquoise bracelet I made in New Mexico the night Pippa and I danced under the moon with a shaman who said we’d been friends in an incarnation before this one, the small bud vase from a kind man I hoped I could learn to love even though he wasn’t Theo…
All gone.
All irreplaceable.
Clothes, my tent, my mountain bike, and all the rest of our gear can be bought at a store. But the precious objects that held my creativity, my memories…
I feel robbed. Violated by those churning waters.
I try to tell myself it isn’t personal—Mother Nature is angry, and she has every right to be—but the pain is still fierce, cutting all the way to the bone.
After a few moments, I pull back, sniffling as I stroke Pippa’s worried face. “It’s okay. We still have each other. We’ll get through this.”
She oinks and her brows lift as if to ask if I’m sure about that.
I nod, patting her front haunch. “I am. Bad Dog has a great rescue squad. As soon as I tell them what’s happened, they’ll be out to fetch us in two shakes of a pig’s tail.”
I limp back toward the oversized armchair by the second story fireplace, deciding not to mention the possibility that the closest cell tower might have been swept away. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being in tough situations throughout the years, it’s not to borrow trouble.
Take each challenge as it comes and don’t stress about things that haven’t happened yet, is my motto.
Still, when I grab my cell from where it fell down between the cushions after my nap this afternoon and see two bars, I exhale a sigh of relief.
The relief lasts until I call 911 not once, not twice, butthreetimes, and am answered by a busy signal each and every time.
Pulse picking up again, I chew the rough edge of my thumbnail, wishing my foot didn’t hurt too bad to pace. I always do my best thinking while I’m pacing.
“It’s okay,” I tell Pippa Jane, who is now sitting on top of my good foot, clearly having no intention of being more than a few inches away from me in the near future. “There are a lot of houses near the river and the lake in town. They’re probably getting tons of calls. We’ll keep trying and get through eventually.”
I try again and again, keeping a brave face on as Pippa continues to grumble fretfully at my feet. As I hang up on the busy signal for the seventh or eighth time, I briefly consider calling my parents, but it’s been years since we spoke. I don’t know if they’d answer and even if they did, there’s nothing they can do to help. They aren’t boat people. Mom doesn’t even know how to swim.
And if theydidn’tanswer, or worse, didn’t care that I was in trouble, it might break me, and I can’t afford to be broken. If I’m going to get Pippa Jane and myself out of here in one piece, I have to stay strong and keep a clear head. The foundation of the cabin should be sturdy enough to hold as the flood rushes around it, but we’re going to need drinkable water and food to ride out the time until the river goes down.
I’ll have to head back downstairs and gather as much as I can from the still dry upper cabinets and a pot to boil water.
I should do that now.
Before it gets any more dangerous.
Instead, I pull up a search window on my phone and type in Theo McGuire’s name. In just a few seconds, I have his work number—he’s in charge of marketing for a fancy real estate firm and looks so handsome and happy in his staff photo, with his thick arm band tattoo hidden beneath a crisp blue button-down shirt.
Before I can think too much about the consequences, I hit the green button and bring the phone to my ear. I know he probably won’t answer at six p.m. on a Saturday in late November, but my heart races anyway.
