Chapter 3

The Hill Street emergency station was a blur of orange vests and strobe lights. I didn't wait for the medic to finish with Noah before I was back behind the wheel. The boy was breathing easier, the nebulizer mask working its magic, but David Hayes didn't look at me when he turned toward the triage ward. His son was safe, and forty-three people were still waiting in the dark at the school.

My phone buzzed in the cup holder.

[Harper: 43 still here. Water rising under the east doors.]

I navigated the backroads, keeping the truck on the high ground. I dialed Pastor Reed as I drove.

"I've got the two church vans on Oak Road," he said, the connection breaking up twice. "The drivers are rattled, but they're parking at the upper edge of the east lot. Fifty yards out."

"Tell them to hold," I said. "I'm clearing the path."

When I reached the school, the main doors were already shuttered against the tide. I moved toward the equipment entrance until Mr. Henderson unlatched the heavy steel door from the inside. I slipped into the dark gym, soaked to the bone.

The gym smelled of damp wool and stale air. Flashlights moved across the court. Harper was standing near the locker room door, a clipboard pressed against her chest. Her thumb shook against the edge of the board, and for a second, she looked entirely like a sixteen-year-old caught in a nightmare.

"Mom," she whispered when I reached her, her voice cracking before she caught herself. "Are you coming back with us this time?"

"I'm staying until the last name is crossed out," I promised, squeezing her shoulder. "How many?"

"Forty-three," she said, steadying her voice. "I've got the elderly and the children grouped by the locker room entrance. Everyone else is on the bleachers."

"Listen up!" I shouted. "Pastor Reed has two vans on the upper lot. It's fifty yards of knee-deep water. Mr. Henderson, grab the climbing rope. Anchor one end to the heavy-duty steel light pole by the vans, and the other here at the door frame."

Henderson and I fought the wind to get the line taut.

"Move them in family groups," I ordered. "Harper, you verify the manifest."

Harper paired every child and unsteady adult with a neighbor who could support them. She checked the list, crossed off names, and handed out Mylar blankets.

Nine people boarded Pastor Reed's van. The second driver took another nine, including Mrs. Gable, her toddler, and the residents who needed help walking.

Halfway across the lot, Mrs. Gable stopped. Her toddler began screaming, and the current pushed her sideways against Henderson's arm.

Harper stood inside the equipment door.

"Mrs. Gable, look at me," she called out, her voice cutting through the gale. "Not the water. Three more steps to the van."

Mrs. Gable lifted her head. Henderson tightened his grip, and together they moved again.

Harper drew a line through the eighteenth name on her list.

"Eighteen out," she said. Her thumb shook against the metal edge. "Twenty-five still here."

Both vans turned onto Oak Road. The second set of taillights had barely cleared the upper curb when the ground beneath the parking lot cracked. A heavy tremor ran through the asphalt, and the drainage wall gave way. Water rushed across the pavement.

Mr. Henderson shone his flashlight at the floor. The water line had climbed three inches since I arrived.

"The vans can't get back in, April," Henderson said. "The path is gone."

I pulled out my phone and checked the fleet app. Three Bennett buses were moving along the elevated causeway, cutting smoothly through the wind, exactly thirteen minutes away from passing the south service ramp.

I dialed county dispatch. The dispatcher's voice was clipped. "Best estimate is forty-five minutes. If the building is taking water, move everyone to the highest safe ground you can reach. I can't promise a unit sooner."

Forty-five minutes. We had thirteen.

I looked at the twenty-five uncrossed names on Harper's clipboard.

"The exposed maintenance path beyond the soccer field leads to the south service ramp," I said, pointing toward the dark corridor behind the gym. "It's four hundred yards. It's uphill, exposed, and pouring rain."

"Some of those kids can't make four hundred yards in this wind," Henderson argued. "We don't have enough cover."

Harper tightened the straps on her backpack. She didn't look at the dark water outside; she looked at the list of names she had been guarding since the evacuation began.

"If the buses won't come to the school," she said, "we put ourselves where Dad has to see us."

I looked at the flooded path, making a rapid calculation.

"Every adult pairs with a child," I ordered. "Hold the guide rope. Harper checks the count every fifty yards, and Henderson brings up the rear. We leave in sixty seconds."