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

edge, where the road back to Nevada extends into the dark. For a second, a bar pops into view. It doesn’t last.

It lasts long enough, though. The phone buzzes once.

My arm jerks back hard, without my permission, and the phone lands facedown on the road.

The sound is dramatic enough that for one wildly hopeful second, I think it must be broken. But when I pick it up, the screen is still lit through a spiderweb of cracks. Like I said, I don’t have that kind of luck.

Two missed calls.

Two voicemails.

And still, zero bars.

Behind me, back in the car, the easy-listening jazz fades away, and a soft voice filters through the rolled-down windows. We hope you’re still with us, Las Vegas, the announcer murmurs. You’re listening to KLVZ. And don’t you even think of going to bed, because we’ll be here all night.

“And so,” I say to the dark ribbon of pavement, “will I.”

A shiver of static cuts the signal, and when my head snaps toward it, I can see how far I’ve strayed down the road. I backtrack carefully, as if my footsteps might stir something that the radio hasn’t, and I slide my fingers under the hood to pop the latch. I’ve never fixed Stanley without my mother here before, but maybe the problem will be obvious.

The problem is not obvious. The only thing that’s obvious is that Stanley won’t be starting up again anytime soon. He lets out a little hiss and a puff of steam, and that’s about the only answer I get from him.

“Oh, baby,” I say. “What did I do to you?”

Stanley the Sedan, who has all the sparkle and stamina of his eighth-grade-history-teacher namesake, has never tolerated long drives under the desert sun. Though up until twenty minutes ago, the desert nights suited him just fine.

I shiver. It’s hard to imagine the desert sun now. My thin T-shirt might as well be paper against the wind. I had a sweatshirt at some point, but when I checked my bag a few minutes ago, I didn’t see it. Still in Vegas, if I had to guess.

Behind me, the breeze picks up. And something rustles.

I look, though I know there’s no one there. Even if there were, the most expensive thing I own is right here, the gently smoking Volvo that no one in their right mind would steal. But I climb into the driver’s seat and lock the doors.

The radio signal wavers, first to static, then to the kind of thready hum that aspires to static. “Oh, come on,” I mutter, nudging the knob left, to the low, low stations. But despite the radio’s promise, it doesn’t look like it’s going to be here all night.

This is how we die. That’s what my best friend, Gaby, would say, were she here.

“This isn’t how we die,” I murmur to the passenger’s seat.

This is absolutely how we die, Gaby would respond. Desert, middle of the night, waiting for some stranger to give us a lift? We are super getting murdered. Be on the lookout for Rose Colter and Gabrielle Summer, last seen in the back seat of an unmarked van.

Were Gaby actually sitting next to me, I might remind her that I’ve been listening to her compendium of scary stories and urban legends since we were five. In all the interesting stories, we would be the monsters.

I balance my phone on my palm, weighing my options, the silence of the desert versus the two missed calls sitting in my voicemail. Carefully, I hit play. One thing I know for sure now: if someone’s calling you in the middle of the night, it’s not to say hi.

Rosie? My mother’s voice comes through first. She sounds tense, tired—but not like anything is wrong. I’ve gotten good at telling the difference. Can you call me tomorrow, even for a few minutes? Dan and I wanted to check when you’d be home.

There’s a pause. In the silence, I think I can hear one of my brother Sammy’s cartoons.

If—if you change your mind, I can drive over right away, she says. I already told Kathy I might have to take some time off, so. She leaves the thought unfinished. Give Jon and Flora a hug for me. I love you.

I flinch. I know she loves me, obviously. But she never used to say it so much.

The message comes to an end, and the voice changes from Mom’s sleepy contralto to Flora Summer’s voice, wavering like a tuning bowstring. Even in the best circumstances, she never sounds entirely sure of herself, like every sentence comes with a hidden question mark. Gaby used to say that her mom held conversations like she was trying to walk and talk and check for snipers all at once.

Rosie? Flora says. I—I know you’re probably driving. But if you get this, I wanted to tell you that you can come back, even if it’s late. We have more than enough room for both of you here, so . . .

She clears her throat, hard. Please call me. I want you both to be part of this. And the message ends there.

I don’t notice until that moment that my fist has been clenched the entire time.

I wasn’t being totally truthful before. I don’t think you need to be that truthful when the only person you’re talking to is yourself. And I didn’t say anything untrue: I did want the road to myself, and my car wouldn’t have survived a daytime drive. But there’s only one reason why I’m here, one reason why I left Vegas just before midnight, four days before I was supposed to: to get out as quickly as possible.

I lose track of the phone for a second after the message ends. The second lasts long enough that the first saved message begins to play.

Rose—

I jam my thumb against the cracked screen hard enough that for a second I think I’ve deleted the message instead of stopping it. But I didn’t. I didn’t. I stare at Gaby’s name long enough