I grab the flashlight with shaking hands, clicking it on, the beam cutting through the darkness in a thin, unsteady line.
“It’s fine,” I tell myself, even though it doesn’t feel fine. “He’s coming. He said he’s coming.”
But it’s been two hours. Two. He should be here by now. Something’s wrong. The thought lodges in my chest, heavy and cold, and I can’t shake it no matter how hard I try. A loud crack echoes from somewhere outside—like a tree snapping—and I flinch, my heart jumping into my throat.
“Okay,” I whisper again, pacing now, the flashlight beam bouncing across the walls. “Okay, okay…”
I don’t know what I’m trying to convince.
Maybe myself. Maybe the house. Maybe the storm. A sudden splash stops me cold. I frown, turning toward the sound. My stomach drops.
“No…”
I rush forward, the flashlight shaking in my grip as I swing it down?—
Water. Seeping in from under the back door. Not just a little. Not something I can ignore. It’s already pooling across the floor, creeping inward, slow but steady.
“Oh my God.”
My breath comes faster now, panic clawing up my chest as I back away. This isn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. The water keeps coming. It spreads across the tile, then into the living room, inching closer to the couch, to my feet—I stumble back, turning in a slow circle, trying to think.
What do I do?
What do I?—
The windows. Dad said stay away from them. But Dad isn’t here. And the water is. Another gust slams into the house, harder than anything before, and the walls groan under the pressure.
I don’t have time. I move. Fast.
I grab the flashlight, my phone, anything within reach that feels important, even though I know none of it matters right now. The water is already at my ankles.
Cold. Fast. Rising.
“Okay,” I breathe, my voice shaking. “Up. I need to go up.”
But upstairs won’t help if the water keeps rising.
The roof. I have to get to the roof. My heart pounds as I rush to the nearest window, yanking the curtain aside. The glass rattles violently under the storm.
“Please don’t shatter,” I whisper, fumbling with the lock.
It sticks. Of course it sticks.
“Come on—come on?—”
I shove harder, my hands slipping, panic rising with the water behind me—It gives. The window jerks open with a loud crack, wind and rain immediately blasting into my face, stealing my breath. I gasp, gripping the frame as I stare out.
The yard is gone. Completely gone. Just water. Rushing, churning water.
My stomach twists. There’s no time to think about it. I climb. One leg over the sill. Then the other.
The wind nearly knocks me back inside, but I hold on, gripping the frame with everything I have before pulling myself up, scrambling awkwardly onto the slanted roof.
Rain soaks me instantly. I crawl upward, fingers slipping against the shingles until I reach the peak, my chest heaving as I finally stop. The world looks unreal.
Water rushes past the house in violent waves, carrying debris, branches—things I don’t want to look too closely at. The rain is still falling, but not as hard now. Not as punishing.
Like the storm is moving on. But the damage—the damage is already done. I wrap my arms around myself, shivering violently, my wet clothes clinging to my skin.
