Chapter 7
The Rising Water
Water seeps under the door like a whisper growing into a shout. Mama Annie moves with quiet urgency, stuffing a change of clothes into a flour sack. Billy stands on a chair, watching the brown snake of floodwater inch up the porch steps, carrying a child’s lost toy and a tin can. His heart drums against his ribs. The street becomes a river, and people wade through it toward the white steeple of the church on the hill. Mama Annie grips his hand and pulls him into the current, the water cold and heavy around his legs. He looks back at their house, a toy box now a small island, and feels a fear so deep it has no name. But she doesn’t let go.
The water was alive. It moved with a purpose of its own, sliding over the road like a dark, hungry thing, swallowing the world Billy had always known. He couldn't stop looking back. The house—their house—sat low and small, its porch steps now just a memory beneath the brown surge. A child’s red ball bobbed past, then a wooden crate, then something that looked like a picture frame spinning lazy circles before disappearing under the surface.
“Don’t look back, baby,” Mama Annie said, her voice tight but steady. She had his hand in hers, and her grip was iron. “You keep your eyes on where we’re going.”
Billy tried. He really did. But his feet kept stumbling, and the water pulled at his legs like it wanted him to lie down and rest. He was cold. The cold had crept into his bones, into his teeth, and he couldn’t stop shivering. The muddy water reached his chest in places, and he had to lift his chin to keep it from his mouth.
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