The Rivals - Dylan Allen Page 0,54

the rain when storms came into the part of the gulf where the city sat. Having a port had made it the powerhouse trade behemoth that it was. But being that close to the water also meant that its flat landscape, the bayou that ran right through the city—and its below-sea-level altitude—made it ripe ground for the kinds of floods that most other major cities had managed to design away.

My phone starts to ring again, and I dash back to pick it up. That’s Cass’s exclusive ringtone and I know her parents’ Meyerland neighborhood floods.

“Hey, you okay?” I ask without saying hello.

“Oh my God, Confidence. Thank God you answered,” she wails and dread fills me. “I’m so scared, I don’t know what to do.” She sobs into the phone.

“Where are you?” I ask, but I already know.

“My parents’. I came last night because they didn’t want to leave their house, and I didn’t want them to be alone.” Her speech is muffled like she’s covering her mouth.

“What’s happened?”

“We woke up this morning, and there was maybe three inches of water in their house. This neighborhood always floods, but not their house. Never. But it did today. And we did our best to get all of their art and electronics up on top of the dressers, on top of appliances. And we thought if the rain slowed down we could get out.” Her voice breaks, and she starts to sob.

“Cass, where are you now?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm and my mind clear. They need solutions, not hysteria.

“At the neighbors’. TB …” She sniffles “We had to swim here. My mom almost drowned us because she was freaking out.”

“What do you mean, swim?” I ask, horrified.

“Are you not watching television? We have more than five feet of water in the house,” she shouts into the phone.

“No, I’m sorry. I got in super early this morning, and I passed out. Cass, are you safe at your neighbors’?” I ask. “Aren’t they a one-story house, too?”

“They have a loft,” she says.

“Oh, good,” I sigh in relief.

“But there are twenty- four people up here. It’s small. And my mother doesn’t have her insulin,” she says, and her voice pitches in an awful spike as her panic rises.

“Okay, well, the rain will stop and the water will recede, right?”

“Yes, but not in time. There’s one bathroom, no power, and all of these people.” Her voice has dropped again and breaks on the last word

“What can I do?” I ask

“I don’t know … nothing,” she says sadly.

“Cass …” I shove my hand through my hair and stare helplessly at the wall.

“It’s okay. I just wanted you to know where I was. Someone’s called the city, and they say they’ll try to send a boat around before it gets dark. But once it gets dark, they’re not going to keep the rescues up. I need to get her out of here,” she says. Urgency coats her voice, and my stomach wrings in my gut while I fret about what to do.

“Listen. Save your phone battery. Let me go find Hayes. I’ll see if he can do something to help,” I say and pray I’m not over promising. But I know she needs the lifeline of hope I’m giving her, too, so I inject my voice with confidence I don’t feel.

“Oh TB, that would be great.” She sounds giddy with relief. “I’m so worried about my mom. And my dad is sitting in a corner sort of talking to himself. They’ve lived in that house for almost forty years, and in just a few hours, it’s nearly gone.” Her voice is barely a whisper when it breaks on that last word.

“Oh, babe, I’m sorry. Let me go and see what I can do,” I say and then hang up before she can respond. My fingers tremble and my stomach feels like it’s hooked to a hot air balloon.

I dial Hayes and hold my breath, praying he’ll pick up.

“Tesoro, I’m in a meeting,” he says in a hushed voice after the third ring.

“Cass just called. Her mother doesn’t have her insulin and the city is sending boats ‘round for rescue, but they’re going to stop when it gets dark,” I say.

“Excuse me, I have to take this,” Hayes says, and I hear the murmur of voices behind him before a door closes.

“Where are you?” I ask him and rummage through my suitcase for clothes. My muscles protest when I bend over and I can’t believe that