We were supposed to go to Rainelle for my birthday. It had been raining for a whole week, and Juliet said, “Jesus Christ! That rain doesn’t sound right.” I kept telling her everything was going to be okay. We sat in the doctor’s office, where my daughter was undergoing an evaluation for autism. 

But the rain kept pounding, and Juliet said, “I hope it doesn’t flood.” I told Juliet it wasn’t going to flood. She was from Southern California, what the hell did she know about rain? 

We listened to it thunder more, and I got a text from my dad that said, “Don’t come to Rainelle for your birthday. It’s supposed to flood.” 

After the appointment was over, I put the kids into their car seats, and we started the two-and-a-half-hour drive. On the way there, I got another text from Dad that said, “Route 60 is still open so hopefully you can make it. I’ll drive out to meet you and make sure it’s okay.” 

Juliet asked if we should even go to Rainelle for my birthday, and I told her it was fine. 

I said, “Besides, Juliet, you really haven’t lived until you’ve risked the lives of your family driving through a flood.” 

But Juliet didn’t laugh. I pulled off the interstate. I explained that Rainelle never flooded. We’d be safe there. Then I saw Dad’s truck. He flashed his lights, which I thought meant, Let’s go. It really meant, I don’t have a cell signal. 

So I took off, and Dad passed in front of me. We began our journey to town. The rain kept pissing, and I saw giant waterfalls rushing off the mountain and pushing rocks and mud onto the road. 

I started talking nervous, and Juliet asked me to be quiet. I said, “Oh shit, Juliet. You don’t need to worry about a flood—it’s probably that mountain that’ll cave in and crush us.” 

I drove the twisty-turny road and I saw water fill the ditches like wild rivers. 

I whispered, “We just need to get to town and everything will be okay.” 

Then I realized something—we were the only ones on the road. We took a turn and drove straight downhill, and that’s when we saw it. I screamed, “Oh shit!” 

The left side of Route 60 was starting to break apart and fall into the creek. Giant chunks of pavement crashed into the water, and we were trapped inside a disaster movie. Then a telephone pole broke off, and the power lines snapped and threw sparks across the road. 

I screamed “Oh shit” again, and Juliet shouted, “Will you shut up, please?” 

So I did. I followed Dad, and we finally made it to Sewell Mountain and started to climb. We drove past Crankshaft Building Supply, and then we made our descent. I hit the brakes because water was washing across the road. 

Juliet gripped her seat and I told her to hold on. I watched Dad slow in front of me, passing through the current. 

Then I passed through the current, too. The water shot out from beneath us in a spray. 

Every time I’d watched people driving through flash floods on TV, I’d always thought, What a bunch of dumbasses. But now the dumbass was me. I looked up and saw a sign that said RAINELLE. 

I touched Juliet’s leg and whispered, “We’re almost there, baby.” Then I saw the entire town was covered by an ocean, and there was water everywhere. There was water inside the houses, and there was water on the road and shit was floating there. 

My four-year-old son, Ben, said, “Why do all these houses look broken?” I didn’t answer him. 

I saw water beside the railroad tracks. I saw a lake where Main Street used to be, and there was nowhere left to go.