Jocelyn sneaks back into my thoughts.
At best, she’s terrified. At worst...
More videos. More updates. More chilling photos. A search for her cross streets, her neighborhood, anything that might clue me in yields nothing. No platforms or outlets have the information I need.
Until I open Snap Map.
A single video from the street next to hers was uploaded nearly an hour ago—a panoramic shot of the flooding road, the water creeping up to old houses that stand mere feet above sea level.
No, no, no.
Call her again. No answer.
Please text me back.
No answer.
My attention travels to the sliders looking out to my backyard. Deathly winds send roof shingles and plant detritus flying through the air. Would be suicide to go out in this. Truck could wash away. Debris could kill me. Current from the rising waters could steal my balance and drag me under.
And yet—
One more call. It rings three times before it disconnects, and I hurl the device to the other side of the couch. Bracing my elbows on my knees, I hide my face in my palms. She’s probably fine. A flooded street isn’t life-threatening if she stays indoors. She said she’d call if she needed me.
But there’s no service, whispers a fiendish, logical voice in my mind.
What if she needs me and I’m not there? What if I do nothing, and something happens to her?
Beyond the window, devastation reigns. I’m a fool for even contemplating going outside, but I head back to mybedroom with reckless desires. Will lightweight clothes and thick-soled tennis shoes work as rescue gear? She probably doesn’t even need rescuing.
But what if she does?
With no idea what I’ll need, I tear through drawers in my kitchen and laundry room. There isn’t much in the way of Useful Gear to Survive Outside in a Hurricane, but what would such a list even include?
Utility knife and a flashlight.
All right, then. Good enough. We’ll MacGyver this shit. I yank my keys from the holder in the kitchen and head to my truck in the garage, ignoring the overbearing sense of idiocy. I’m going to die trying to save her, the girl who doesn’t even want me.
Fuck. I forgot the Tums.
Can’t go back now.
The garage door opens a portal to Hades.
Ignore, ignore, ignore.
The truck roars to life, and I back it into the stupidest decision I’ve ever made. Battered in the wind, I’m imagining one giant Ty-Foo fromSuper Mariofollowing my every move. Asshole makes driving a hectic battle for control while the remains of plants, houses, street signs assail me like missiles.
Under normal circumstances, Joss’s house is a ten-minute drive. Due to flooded roads and downed trees, it takes me half an hour to reach the road leading into her neighborhood.
Ha. This is madness. The street descends into the floods. It’s practically a boat ramp at this point. I need a fucking pontoon. I stare at that turbulent water. Am I really doing this?
I’m really fucking doing this.
My hand reaches for the truck’s door handle of its own volition. The gale nearly rips the door off its hinges, but withHerculean effort, I get it shut. Violent gusts of rainy wind assault every part of my body, and I throw an arm up to protect my eyes.
Forget the flashlight. Goggles would have been convenient.
I jog best I can into the flood, then slow once it reaches my thighs.
