The Valley and the Flood by Rebecca Mahoney (i wanna iguana read aloud TXT) 📕

your car broke down on the highway. You didn’t wait with it. Why?”

I shrug as nonchalantly as I know how. “I saw the blinking light on the broadcast tower. Figured there must be a town here to go with it.”

“And that’s why you want to go to the station so badly?” she asks, stirring her milk shake. “To thank it in person?”

I flush. Yeah, that’s fair. “I heard something. On the radio,” I say. “A message no one but me should have. I’d like to know what it’s doing on a station that closed up shop fifty years ago.”

If she has questions about that, she hides it well. She nods thoughtfully. “And you’re sure you came here alone?”

“Of course I’m sure,” I say. “You saw me, right after I got into town.”

She takes a long sip from her straw. “And what is it you don’t want to get worse?”

“I’m sorry?” I say.

“When I met you this morning,” she says, “you were worried that something was getting worse. What, exactly?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

She slides the straw out of her glass and runs it across her tongue. “Curiosity.”

The weird thing is, I want to tell her. Just to see what it sounds like here, in a place where it wouldn’t change how everyone’s already looking at me. But my own parents don’t know. It doesn’t seem fair that some stranger should know first.

“Migraine,” I say. “Had it since this morning. Is it my turn yet?”

“By all means,” Cassie says. “But why don’t I start by answering your other questions?”

I wait, but she doesn’t speak at first. She twirls her straw. “You asked about Alex Harper,” she finally says. “It’s like I said. He’s not from around here. His father brought him here when he was a very small, very ill child. He heard that the warm, dry air would help his lungs. He found a . . . different kind of treatment.

“And I did bring you to him to book an appointment, by the way,” she adds. “He’s a very good intern. Very perceptive. He always knows exactly how urgent something is going to be.”

She starts looping one of her cherry stems into a knot. “And as for who I am,” she says, “my name is Cassandra Cyrene, and I’m the third-most accurate prophet in Lotus Valley.”

“Prophet?” I’m not sure I should be laughing. But once I start, I can’t stop. “Okay. So you’re psychic?”

“People ask questions. I find them answers.” She raises an eyebrow at me. “May I ask what’s so funny?”

“There’s, um,” I say, my voice still shaking with laughter. “Rankings?”

“I missed second by that much, too,” Cassie says, holding her thumb and index finger centimeters apart. “If not for John Jonas and that drought.”

I’m still smiling, even through the chill settling in my stomach. Theresa Gibson said that Cassie’s recommendation was an honor. The waitress said Cassie’s name like she was waiting for instructions. “Don’t sell yourself short,” I say. “That deputy did what you said without even asking.”

“Oh. That?” she says. “That’s not really because of me. That’s because the prophecy that’s about to come true is one of mine.”

The diner feels as if it’s gone quieter than before. I lower my voice. “How can you be so sure? Sounds like you’ve been wrong before.”

For the first time, she looks annoyed. “If you’re asking why I’m only third, it’s because I miss the big picture, from time to time. Sometimes I see so much that I make too many assumptions about what I didn’t see. But I’ve never been wrong wrong. Now, would you like me to answer your question, or would you like to be snide?”

It should be ridiculous. But I don’t have Gaby here to tell me not to apologize. I sit back against the bench. “I’m listening.”

As weak as the apology is, she seems satisfied. “Have you lived near the desert long?”

“My whole life,” I say.

“So do you ever get the sense that you’re not alone out here?” Cassie asks. “Is this really the first time you’ve heard something on these empty stretches of road that couldn’t possibly exist?”

“I’m not sure I understand,” I say slowly. “You’re talking about—”

“I’m talking about living things, like you or me. Things living out of the corners of our eyes, flitting in and out of the gaps in time. Things that exist separate from us. For the most part.”

She scrapes up the last drops of milk shake with her straw. “I don’t know that you can lump them all together. Some communicate, some don’t. Some have shape, some look different from person to person—and some of them can’t be seen at all, except by the right people. Some of them want to be left alone. And some of them need us to survive, for better or for worse. They’ve only got one thing in common. When there’s a shift in the world that can’t be undone—from the greatest cataclysm to the smallest broken promise—that’s one of them, being born.

“Where you’re from, you might call them a feeling in the air, or an unexplained noise, or someone walking across your grave. Here, we call them our neighbors. The oldest of them was born right here, where this town was built. And now they’re coming home.”

She levels her gaze across the table at me. I stare back blankly. “Still doesn’t ring a bell? Then how about this. If you ask any person in this diner, they’d tell you that the most notable things about our town are as follows: The yearly quilting competition. The blueberry mint pie. And the massive flood that is set to wipe us off the map in three and a half days’ time. What do you know about that?”

I almost start laughing again. But she looks as serious as I’ve seen her so far.

“Three days as in New Year’s Day?” I start to reach for my phone. “But the weather says—”

“I know what the weather says.” She leans back. “I’d like to hear what you have