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

sets me on a track for that bright shivering house. It happens again, and again, and even at the farthest I can get, the volume never fades.

There are other flashes, too. Felix’s family, loading up the car. Alex’s father, sweeping a table of meds into a backpack. Cassie, moving silently across a lawn under that eerie green sky. Mom, sitting by the window in our apartment, just watching.

My foot catches on an edge in the sidewalk, throwing me on hands and knees to the pavement, and I let out a sound I didn’t realize could come from my mouth. I don’t feel the pain as I push myself up. There’s no space in my body for it.

I double back to the house, I climb the steps, and I pound on the door.

“Shut up!” I start in with one fist, then two, then with every bit of my weight. The wood bows inward with the force of me. I throw myself against it. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!”

It doesn’t shut up, it doesn’t stop, even when my words become howls, and I sink to the side of the house and clamp my hands over my ears. My fingernails dig into my scalp. The house pounds against my back.

I drag air in through my nose and out through my mouth, rapidly at first, and then timed in the way I’ve been taught, in for seven, hold for two, out for eleven. In—you’re okay. Hold—you’re okay. Out—you’re okay.

After a while, I can whisper to myself on the exhales. “Shh. You’re okay. You’re okay. It’s okay.”

I’m gradually aware that the shuddering of the house has slowed. The music has stopped. The only beats against my back are my own heart. I don’t recognize the front door I’m leaning against, but I know I’m back in Lethe Ridge.

Dazed, I take stock. There are beads of blood against my jeans from where I tripped, bits of pavement in my palms. My throat feels ripped and raw. I can’t help but feel a distant sense of wonder at how thoroughly I just lost my shit.

I’m not sure what me “letting it out” looks like, I confessed to Maurice once.

Like that, apparently.

The air stings my skin as the sweat starts to cool, and little by little, my breathing evens out. Lethe Ridge shivers, as if bracing for the impact we can both feel coming. And that presence all around me, that overwhelming feeling I’ve come to recognize as the Flood—it doesn’t leave me altogether, but it diffuses, as if spreading to every corner of town. And that tornado-dark sky saps the last of the color out of Lotus Valley.

I feel for sure now that the Flood’s attention isn’t on me anymore. That they’ve set their sights, permanently, on the town ahead.

But I don’t think they’ve crossed the borders yet. Lethe Ridge, and everything beyond it, lies undisturbed for now. I’d felt the world crumbling at the edges during the attack. But here it still is.

I squeeze my eyes shut and run my still-shaking hand through my hair. Nothing’s harder than trying to think post-panic, with my thoughts blasted apart and scattered. I raise myself onto unsteady legs and turn to the distant sound of cars. If I can’t think, then I’m going to follow the one concrete plan I had: find the exit.

It takes time. Every house looks the same as the others. But I’ve got the distant sounds of the evacuation to guide me and a clumsy-but-sure urge to run. Higher brain functions can follow. I’m shivering still. I miss my sweatshirt. It’s probably still behind the couch at Flora’s.

Don’t get lost in your head. The thought is automatic. That’s why we’re all here right now, isn’t it? Because I couldn’t follow my own rule?

But there’s a second thought, a little stronger than the first. All I’ve done since I got to Lotus Valley was keep myself from thinking about Flora’s. And I think that made it worse. I haven’t tried to understand what I felt, looking at Nick. I haven’t tried to figure out what answer I gave myself, let alone the conclusion that the Flood came to.

It hits me with enough force for a moment that my footsteps slow. And again, I take stock of what the Flood has shown me so far. Sutton Avenue, Flora’s kitchen, the thrift shop, Maurice’s office, Marin’s party, the morning of Gaby’s funeral. All connected to something I felt in that present moment, as concrete as the cul-de-sac on the TV or as vague as a shirt, a window, a similar emotion. But all connected to how I feel about my diagnosis, too.

Except for the morning of Gaby’s funeral. That was months before my diagnosis.

Unless that one was meant to be about Flora and me.

Think, I tell myself. The Flood showed me that after our first real conversation. What were we talking about?

This is your home. You’re really going to destroy it?

Can you tell me why?

That was their answer. Flora and me, on that floor, on that morning. Why was that their answer?

The faraway rumble of voices grows stronger, distracting me for a moment, and when I cut through the next backyard, I find the fence I scaled that first morning. As I hoist myself over, the crowd briefly swings into view, clustered on a high hill half a mile out. My legs quiver a little harder just looking at the climb. But I’ve barely taken a step when a car pulls up next to me.

A back door swings open. And John Jonas flashes that implacable smile. “I foresaw that you needed a ride.”

With a shaky laugh, I get in.

We park near a cluster of cars on the far side of the hill, and I mumble a thank-you as I let myself out. I don’t think he hears me. He, like the gathered crowd up ahead, only has eyes for the town below.

There are two people watching for me, though: Felix and Alex, standing a little