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

Over the blood pounding in my ears, I hear myself descend into nauseous laughter. It might have solved some of my problems if I had deleted it.

Fingers still shaking, I delete my mother’s message, and then Flora Summer’s. I leave Gaby’s right where it is, and I tuck the phone back into the glove compartment.

And then it’s quiet again. Just me and the desert.

—

THIS FAR AWAY from the cities, with all the different patterns of light and distance, the night sky ripples like water. This time last year, that was what I would have been here for: to spread a blanket across the dirt and watch the stars scrape against the edges of the universe.

Last year, Gaby would have been here. And let’s be honest, we’d be driving already. She’d hack into some rancher’s Wi-Fi and find some engine repair how-to. She used to brag that she had as many talents as there were videos on YouTube. My own talents are a bit less practical.

I close my eyes and tilt my head back. I’m not sure how long I stay like that. Or how long the noise goes on without me noticing.

. . . re?

I sit up, dead straight. But it’s as quiet as it was before.

Until I hear it again.

Ro . . . are . . .

I open the glove compartment, but the cracked screen of my phone is black. It’s not until I hear the crackle of static that I remember the radio.

It’s still at the low, low station I left it at before, but this broadcast is coming from somewhere else. The sound is uneven, unclear. But I’m close.

Very gently, I turn the knob clockwise, but even that’s too much. The static is worse now. Out of the corner of my eye, the radio tower blinks. And I wonder.

Ro . . . are . . . ere?

I breathe in, slowly, to steady my hand. And I give the knob the slightest flick to the left.

The sound is crystal clear this time. Clear enough that before the voice speaks again, I hear her shaky inhale.

Rose? Gaby says. Are you there?

I hear the next word form in the back of her throat. But I can’t make it out, I never can. I hear muffled words behind her, definitely male. And the call ends as it always does: with a swish of air.

And then it begins to play again.

Rose, are you there? Rose, are you there? Rose—

All of a sudden, there’s hard, heavy breaths, drowning out the message. Mine. I jump out of the car, sure that I’m going to be sick, but before I get the chance, I catch sight of it again. East of the road. The tower, its light blinking in time with the cadence of Gaby’s voice.

Rose, are you there? Rose, are you there?

I’m not sure if I make a real decision. It’s an instinct almost as old as I am: go to Gaby.

I packed light. All I’ve got to carry is my backpack—and I do, wrenching it out of the trunk and onto my shoulders. I’m already moving forward as I turn, but I double back, reach in through the window of the car to snatch my phone from the glove compartment and my keys from the ignition.

The tower’s still visible, still blinking. Not too far away.

I turn the broadcast off. But I can still hear the echo, looping through the back of my brain: Rose, are you there? Rose, are you there?

Three hundred and sixty-one days ago, that voicemail, timestamped 1:05 a.m., was waiting for me when I woke up. One single short voicemail from Gaby, just minutes before she left the New Year’s Eve party at Ariella Kaplan’s cabin. I wasn’t there. And she wasn’t expecting me.

That wouldn’t have been so unusual. Despite what people thought, we didn’t do everything together. As long as I had known her, Gaby had always had more. More friends, more energy, more willingness to try whatever. She was brave. She was fun.

She was killed three hundred and sixty-one days ago, in the early hours of the morning, at the corner of Sutton and Chamblys.

I leave the road. And as I start to run, my car, the broadcast, and the rest of the world fall away.

Two THE SPOILER ALERT

I DON’T SEE the blinking light anymore.

The sun is above the horizon now, angled straight into my eyes. Everything ahead is a blazing blur. But I haven’t changed direction. This should be the right way.

I pull my water out of my bag. The sun’s not unbearable, not yet, and there’s a lingering chill I can’t shake. But the dry desert air has started to coat my tongue, and a very well-trained part of my brain is asking when I last had anything to drink. That’s the sort of thing I’ve gotten good at. Losing your best friend means relearning the basics of staying upright, until you’re better at it than most people.

It’s funny. Just last year I would have said I knew more about death than most people. Gaby and I were, after all, founding members of the Thorn Brook Elementary Dead Dads Club. But Gaby’s father died while she was waiting to be born. Mine, when I was two. We knew a lot less than we thought we did.

Like I said: It was more impulse than decision, leaving my car back there. But terrible decisions are still decisions.

For the first time since I left the car, I stop. I glance over my shoulder to where the road probably is. And I make a cold, hard assessment. I don’t know where I am. I’ve lost sight of where I’m going. And Gaby Summer is dead.

Despite the steadily rising heat, the hairs on my arms stand up. Whether in my mouth or in my head, the words always feel wrong. They’re not wrong, though. It’s the one thing I know for sure.

It was a closed casket funeral. If it were me and not her, Gaby would have needed to see. But I never needed