He prayed that meant the occupants got out.
Jack, hunched in the bow, shielded his eyes and scanned the water. “That’s the Cottrell house—two kids, I think. Second floor.”
Finn didn’t answer. Just gunned the throttle and turned toward it.
Dusk was falling fast, and the spotlight mounted to the front of the boat barely cut through the haze. What they couldn’t see, they had to trust they’d feel—or miss by inches.
The damage was biblical. Trees tangled into snarled heaps. Unnatural empty patches of forests. Hillsides slumped into the roads like melted clay. What had once been driveways were now rivers. And yards—yards that had smelled of honeysuckle and barbecue just days ago—were overcome by silt and gasoline.
The loss glared back at them in painful clarity.
There weren’t words for what they’d seen. The heartbreak. The things they couldn’t unsee.
And yet, somehow they kept finding people. That was the only thing that kept the grief from overtaking him. That—and the quiet strength of the man beside him.
“There!” Jack pointed.
A man was waist-deep on a porch, struggling to hold up a woman and two kids. Finn swung the boat around, slicing through the current.
“We’re coming!” he shouted.
And the rush of relief and gratitude doused the pain a little. A few more found.
A few more safe.
The man didn’t hesitate—just lifted one child, then another, and passed them over the porch railing into Jack’s arms. Finn steadied the boat as the woman climbed in, crying softly. The man hesitated, staring at the house as if trying to memorize it.
“My mother,” he said hoarsely. “We couldn’t get her downstairs. And... and her medication...”
Finn’s jaw clenched. He reached across the gap and gripped the man’s wrist. “We’ll send someone back. Right now, we need to get you to safety.”
The man nodded once—numb—and climbed in beside his family, wrapping his arms around his kids like they were the only thing tethering him to earth.
“I’ll call it in.” Jack reached for the radio mic. “This is Jack Austen out at the Cottrell house on Woodbridge. Elderly woman upstairs—likely in need of medical assistance.”
Static cracked. Then a calm voice came through: “Copy that, Jack. Dawson Craig’s on the west loop with the medic boat. I’ll patch him in.”
Finn stared at the house, his hands curled around the steering wheel. Could Dawson reach her in time?
He didn’t get to decide. Jack leaned close and murmured, “Next house. Second floor. I saw a light.”
Right. Next one. That’s how they kept going. What they’d been doing for hours. And they’d helped dozens.
He could feel the pull in his shoulders, the ache in his spine, the water soaking him to the bone. But none of that mattered. Not when people were still waiting.
He steered the boat and headed for the yellow house on the corner.
They passed a watering can bobbing near the peak of a flooded shed. A skeleton of a swing set jutted out of the water. The air smelled like rot and gasoline.
Water lapped over most of the first story of the house, but as they drew closer, he spotted a young woman holding a baby and waving frantically from the second-floor window.
Jack took over the steering and radioed a message while Finn stood, anchoring his legs as he reached for the porch post and used it to swing the boat close to the side of the house.
“Can you make it down on the porch roof?” Finn called.
The woman looked down, shaking her head.
Finn shot Jack a look, steadied himself on the edge, then vaulted from the boat onto the porch roof—wet, steep, slick. His boots slid, but he caught himself on the window frame and eased the woman out slowly as she clutched her baby against her chest.
