LITMIR.BIZ

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looks. None with answers.

      He tugged on his splash skirt, and caught a look of concern from Paul. “I know. Bad idea,” Jack said. “What else can we do?”

      “Do not do this,” Paul said.

      “Surely, there’s not another wall of water coming.”

      “You do not know that.”

      “Right.” Jack studied the dark tongue. Dirty water slithered downriver, carrying limbs, whole trees, and debris. He moved upstream and pulled the kayak to water’s edge. Paddle in one hand, he slipped in and pulled the splash skirt over the rib of the cockpit. “The next mile’s flat water, right?”

      “Normally,” Paul shouted, over the roar. “In a flood? I do not know. Do not get yourself killed!”

      Jack gave a nod. “See if you can get someone on the radio.” He plunged one end of the paddle.

      Crossing the river, he skirted past the inflow, avoiding debris, pushing limbs away with the paddle, working toward open water.

      At the bend, one raft sat eddied out, river-right, going nowhere. No people. None he could see. He floated past, into a straight stretch, water fast and turbulent. Ahead floated the second raft, upside down, one person—a head and an orange vest—bobbing in and out of sight in the midst of debris. No way to tell if they’re okay. The second person? Nowhere to be seen.

      Plowing forward, he closed the gap. The second person? Where?

      There. Alongside the raft.

      Arms flailed, slipping, attempting to climb on. No hand holds.

      Who first? Which?

      A log floated at the raft. He cut left, toward it.

      Red hair. The Lizzy woman. He overtook the log and pushed off with the paddle, propelling the kayak alongside the raft. “Take hold of the grab loop. I’ll pull you to shore.”

      “No. Gotta save Maynard,” she screamed. “Gotta save the boat.”

      She took the grab loop and hefted herself onto the bow, pitching Jack forward. He lay back, countering the weight. “You’ll never . . .”

      She wriggled her way onto the tube, giving a kick, pitching the kayak back.

      He rolled. Warm, dirty water. Debris. He thrust the paddle, rolling himself upright.

      “Where’s Maynard?” Lizzy hollered. She paced, corner to corner on the belly of the raft, water dripping from her, feet slipping. “Where? Under the boat?”

      “Downstream,” Jack shouted.

      A swell hit the raft, throwing Lizzy on her face, washing over her and sending her willowy body sliding along the rubber. She managed to stay on.

      Jack steadied the kayak, and glanced up river. Another swell.

      He caught a look on Lizzy’s face. Fear.

      He followed her eyes.

      A boulder, mid-river, split the stream, collecting debris. A cottonwood bole bobbed in the water, trapped against it, it’s leaf-covered limbs pushing back the current. Water boiled.

      Maynard, his head nested in orange, floated toward it.

      “Swim, Maynard!” Lizzy screamed. “To shore. Swim.” She stepped forward, onto the tube.

      “Don’t!” Jack shouted. “Let me get . . . ”

      She dove.

      Surfacing, she plunged her arms in and out of the water, swimming toward the orange vest.

      A swell hit the raft, floating it over her. She disappeared.

      Pushed by the swell, Jack paddled toward the man, closing the distance. “Maynard, look at me!” Jack shouted. “Look at me!”

      The man’s head turned.

      Jack reached under the splash skirt, found his throw bag, and hurled it toward him. Line fed out. The bag splashed down behind the man, rope splatting on the surface. “Grab hold!”

      The man flailed, fumbling for line, managing a grasp. Jack clipped the end to his vest and made a quick right, paddling toward shore. “Kick!” he ordered, feeling the drag of the man.

      A swell hit the kayak, broadside, capsizing him. A thrust on the paddle and Jack kept it rolling, losing his sunglasses but uprighting the kayak, keeping it pointed to shore. The man, still kicking, came aground. Grasping willow branches, he pulled himself out of the water.

      Jack spun around, catching sight of Lizzy upstream of the raft. It slammed into the cottonwood pinned to the boulder.

      The next swell hit, pushing the raft into the crown of the tree. Limbs held the bow, as the force of the water stood the raft on end, flipping it onto the shattered mass. Lizzy, bobbing in the water, rose with the swell, hefting herself onto the log. A wave carried her up the bole, dragging her over splintered branches. Her movement stopped. She reached down, tugged, then stood, leg bleeding, dress in shreds. She stumbled up the log, working her way toward the raft. As she approached, the raft broke free, spinning in the current, scraping past the boulder. Stunned, she watched it float away. A wave washed over her. She scooted toward the boulder, holding onto branches as the next surge hit.

      Jack pulled in the line, stuffing the throw bag. Upstream or down? Current’s too fast. Has to be up.

      He paddled upstream along the bank, then kicked into the current. Floating toward her, he took hold of the bag. “Be ready to swim!” he shouted. He tossed it. Line fed out.

      She caught it one-handed.

      The log shifted. He tried a hard turn. A limb cut him off. A swell picked up the kayak, floating it over the log, dropping it against the boulder. The bole shifted, pinning the kayak. Jack ripped off the splash skirt and squirmed out of the cockpit, crawling onto rock. The kayak shattered.

      He scrambled up the boulder.

      Lizzy stood watching, blood dripping from a gash on one thigh, her dress in tatters, a spaghetti strap gone, long rips exposing her thighs and side. She gathered the tears in one hand, and held out the rope with the other. “So, now,” she muttered, “what am I to do with this?”

      Chapter

      3

      The river rolled and rumbled, red and soupy, the current shoving debris. Gusts bit their faces, the air thick with the smell of dirt.

      Water inched up the rock.

      Jack turned, looking for options, saw none, and caught sight of the raft, river bags and pieces of kayak floating into a wide reach of the river, settling into an eddy on river-right. Maynard, eyes wide, stared, everything passing him by.

      “River’s getting higher,” Jack muttered, fighting the urge to run with nowhere to go. He cleared his throat. “When’s payday?”

      “Huh?” Lizzy forced her eyes from the torrents. “Why?”

      He knelt. “Let me see that.” He reached for her leg and wiped the blood from her thigh. He ran a finger along the wound. Not deep. Good.

      She grimaced. “What about payday?” she shouted, fighting the roar of the river.

      “Your dress has seen better days.” He ripped a strip of fabric from along the hem.

      Shivering, she gathered shreds of cloth. “Stop.”

      He tore off another strip. “Hold still.”

      “Hey, it’s all I’ve got on.”

      He squeezed out the water and began wrapping her leg. “Imagine that.”

      “Keep

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