The captain’s radio crackled: “Secondary surge at the spillway. Expect three to five inches additional in the next six. Bridge remains yellow-orange.”
“Copy,” she said. She looked at the shallow bowl of Mill Creek and then at the cluster we had made on the high part of the road. “We’re done here. Back to the lot. We don’t let this place decide it’s a river too.”
We walked our parade back the way parades never go—quiet, blankets up, heads low. The rain spit, then softened, then spit again as if debating. The church lot’s floodlights flickered. The generator coughed, considered the sky, and settled into its duty. When we reached the door, Zoe was at the threshold like a checkpoint. She lifted her chin at June and ticked two lines with her finger—one to the hall, one to the firehouse.
“Deputy report?” June asked, straight-faced.
