We are moving too slowly. “A little faster.”
Nia stumbles for the next cropping of stones. “Why is the ground shaking?”
“Keep moving.”
A wall of water rushes down the canyon, ripping the stones where we stood only a moment ago straight off the cliff wall.
“Don’t stop,” I shout.
Let her reach the ledge. Let her make it.
“Almost there.” A few more steps and she will be safe. Just a few more?—
A violent shake rattles my very bones. I shove Nia forward, onto the ledge, just as the ground vanishes beneath my boots. I manage to catch myself on the edge, but the earth is little more than dust, crumbling under my grip.
A hand wraps around my wrist as the water tears at my dangling legs.
We are not high enough. We are not going to make it.
Fear and defiance burn in Nia’s amber gaze.
I shove my boot into the stone and push with all my strength, up and onto the ledge, collapsing next to Nia. Our chests heave and fall in time, as if my lungs are her lungs.
We made it.
She shoves her hair back from where the sopping curls stick to her brow.
We are lucky to be alive. If I had not seen the ledge . . . If we had not already started to climb before that wave came through?—
I drag both my hands down my face. We are alive.
For now.
The ledge leads to a small overhang large enough for us both to escape the pounding rain. The space is damp, but it will have to do for now.
We have no other choice.
Nia waits at the entrance, a pale, trembling hand pressed to the wall as she stares out at the raging river. “What if the water gets higher?”
“It will not.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I have made a promise to return you to Rosehill, and I do not intend to break it.”
I empty the contents of my pockets and rucksack onto the dusty floor so they might have a chance to dry. The moss and kindling I’ve collected are useless. Not that it matters when there is nothing to burn.
Nothing but the paper the list was written on.
Carefully, I unfold it. The ink drips down the page, the words written there barely legible.
Nia empties her own pockets of the berries, many squished and inedible. She insists on giving me more than she takes for herself, and we eat in silence to the song of the pouring rain, neither of us mentioning how every drop brings us one step closer to our demise.
With our hunger far from satisfied, I suggest stripping down to only the essentials so our clothes might have a chance to dry. This night will be cold enough without being wrapped in wet fabric.
I carry my trousers to the doorway and wring the moisture from the tired fabric.
Nia steps out to do the same, the straps on her bra slipping down her slender shoulders. “How long do you think it will take for the river to go down?”
