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

How are Flora and Jon doing?

And right below that, from Flora: I hope we can talk about this. You’re very important to me. You and Nick both.

Biting the inside of my lip, I type back, hard enough that I hope I’ll punch through the cracked screen: I know. and I’ll be back in Vegas soon, so I’ll see you then.

I hit send. And then I take a closer look at the screen. Shit. I sent that to my mother instead of Flora. Shit, shit, shit, shit.

hahaha sorry!! I type, the autocorrect covering for my shaking fingers. wrong person! was supposed to meet a friend, turns out they’re out of town. and Flora and Jon are doing okay.

I hold my breath. Mom is typing, the phone tells me. “Mom is typing” for about a minute longer than I can stand. Then, finally:

You’re so in demand. Give everyone my love.

I exhale, and I send Flora’s message to the correct person. This time, there’s no quick reply. And I start to slide the phone back in my pocket.

Except it buzzes, one last time.

New message from: Nick L.

hey, colter. can we talk?

Vaguely, I feel the hairs on my arms stand on end. I delete the message. But before I put away my phone, I flip through my contacts and delete his entry, too. I didn’t know I still had him in there. Almost a year, and there are still pieces of him I haven’t tucked away. Like broken glass waiting on a bare foot.

I watch the road after all.

—

I DON’T GET my first clear look at the town of Lotus Valley until we head back, my car shuddering and bouncing on the tow hook. There’s a steep incline just west of the Lethe Ridge housing development, plateauing into a high overlook, but otherwise, the land is flat as far as I can see. Under the afternoon sun, the broadcast tower looks quiet and unlit.

I shift in my seat and make a point to uncurl my fists. Theresa’s been unusually quiet since we picked up the car. That was more than fine with me for the first few miles, but it’s starting to make me more nervous.

“So is the valley nearby?” I ask.

“Huh?” She doesn’t look at me. “Ah. No. There’s no valley.”

“Oh. Okay.” I pause. “Lotuses, then?”

“Nope,” she says.

“Makes sense,” I say as sincerely as I know how.

We make another turn, and the tower passes back into my field of vision. I swallow. I’ve got my car now. Which means the detour is over.

“Could we turn on the radio?” I say. “I—I like the music. When I drive.”

Convincing. A flawless normal human impression. But I’m not sure the question warrants the stare I get in return.

I decide to keep my mouth shut until we get back to the garage.

Theresa swings her long legs out of the truck and strides to the back to unhook Stanley. I follow with a lot more scrambling. “Um,” I say. “About the payment—”

“Pay me when I’m done. It’s not like you’re going anywhere.” She snorts. “Might take a couple of days, though. You’re not in a hurry, are you?”

On one hand, there won’t be a credit card charge from the middle of nowhere, dated when I was supposed to be with Flora. But there’s a shift in the air, a pressure that I know doesn’t exist outside my head. For a little while, at least, I’m trapped.

“I guess not,” I mumble.

Theresa doesn’t say anything at first, and for a minute, I think we’re done. But as I start to turn away, she says, “You asked about the radio.”

Something in her tone stops me short. It’s kind of like how that blonde girl sounded, right after I handed her the water. That same sudden interest.

“Y-yeah,” I say.

“Well,” she says. “Sorry to disappoint. But we don’t get any signals here.”

I heard what she said. But I must have misunderstood.

“Nothing?” My voice sounds admirably steady. “I found your local station, though—while I was out on the highway?”

“Our local station,” Theresa repeats. I nod. And she smirks. “Then you must have been having a pretty good dream, Ms. Nobody. We haven’t had a local station since 1973.”

I say something back to her. At least, I hear myself do it—a thank-you, or an apology, or both at the same time. And when I turn back to Morningside Drive, I try to walk like running hasn’t crossed my mind.

I haven’t slept a full night since I got to Flora’s. I didn’t leave Vegas in the clearest state of mind. And most importantly, the only existing recording of that voicemail is on my phone.

And yet I know what I heard. I’m sure. And lately it takes a lot for me to be sure.

“Need a ride?” someone calls from over my shoulder.

It doesn’t sound like Theresa, but it must have been—it came from the garage. “What?” I say as I turn back.

Theresa’s not there. Neither is the garage.

I inhale sharply. The sound echoes down the pavement. Morningside Drive is gone. Lotus Valley is gone. I’m standing in the middle of an empty stretch of road, in the kind of dark stillness you only find in the earliest hours of morning. I’m surrounded by flat, burnt-yellow grass. And the only light to be found is the line of streetlights, few and far between.

“Theresa?” I try, pointlessly. But the only response I get is a low rumble, far in the distance.

I take a few uneasy steps, conscious of any movement behind me. And at the end of my sightline, something starts to take shape. Something tall and gnarled, climbing straight out of the middle of the road. An ancient oak tree.

This isn’t Morningside Drive in Lotus Valley. This is miles away, just outside San Diego, at the corner of Sutton Avenue and Chamblys Road.

I take another step. The branches of the tree become sharper, more defined. The rumble is louder now, lower. So low that my skin ripples into goose bumps just listening.

Another sound breaks through—louder, higher, closer.