The house always felt cold. Luis had tried his best to dispel the chill – he had worked painstaking hours to reinforce the wooden walls, to chop wood and keep their fire going, to surround the windows with thick curtains. Nothing he did ever seemed to work. Every morning he would wake up with goosebumps lining his arms, and every evening he would put his daughter, Rose, to sleep while the threat of frost hung in the air. Outside the house was a different story: the humidity would smother him with warm dampness.

For a long time, Luis wondered if that was why he had never been able to keep crops alive. Maybe there was something in the air that was hindering him. Maybe there was some technique he wasn’t aware of, that Marta had known before she had passed away. Now he and Rose would look out at the dry land they owned, occasionally glancing across the river at the lush, green corn stalks that swung and swayed in breeze, and wonder whether it was time to move on: whether they deserved a chance at happiness.

Luis was always sure they did, but never entertained the idea of leaving. There was always a reason why. One time he and Rose had packed up everything they needed, and she had come down with a fever. He didn’t know if he believed in God or not, but even he could not deny that the timing of her sickness seemed calculated.

He looked up at his house as these thoughts swirled in his head. He had run into town, hoping to gather some final supplies before the black cloud descended upon them. He had been mildly successful: nails, in case they needed to board up their windows if the wind blew the glass in, along with some bread, cheese, coffee, and rice, all wrapped up in individual sacks and cloth for transportation. He had calculated the rations with as much precision as he could, but the numbers still worried him. If the storm went on for more than three days, they would need to figure something out. This was all assuming their home was not overtaken by the Red River, which Luis was not confident about, either. While the farm across the river from them was positioned on a higher embankment, offering them a decent amount of space between the curling waves and the surface of the river bank, his home was just a foot above the river: great for getting water to boil, awful when rainstorms came out of nowhere.

When he entered the house, he was surprised to see Rose cleaning. She was often too tired to clean, and Luis always felt bad about pressing her to finish her chores. Yet, without him even asking, Rose was sweeping the dining room floor with their ratty broom, pushing it out the back door toward the farm while humming a tune.

“Have you been keeping an eye on the weather?” he asked.

Rose turned and nodded, motioning toward the black clouds that were looming over them. Luis walked toward the dining room table and set down his pack, unloading his haul from town.

“I know,” he said. “Looks like we’re going to get a decent rainstorm.”

He looked at his daughter, who was now pushing nine years old to Luis’s amazement. Her visage was grim, and she motioned toward the Red River. Even without seeing the surface of the water, he could already imagine its anger: the water always seemed to be roiling as thick whitecaps slid over each other, twirling inward and spilling outward as the current pushed forward with terrifying speed.

He refocused his attention on the back, digging into it to pull out the rest of his purchases. “I got us some bread and cheese. Some rice, too. Coffee for me. Should be able to hold us over until the storm passes,” Luis said.

When he looked up, his daughter had returned to sweeping. She wasn’t even looking at him anymore. Luis sighed to himself and removed his empty pack from the table, placing it beside the front door. Unable to think of anything else to say or ask, he walked into the kitchen with his arms full of food and began to place them on the counter in neat rows.

After everything was organized, he returned to the living room. Rose was no longer sweeping. The broom had been placed against the wall, next to the back door, and a small line of dirt and dust was visible in front of the threshold. She had closed the door as well, though a small chill of wind continued to push its way through the gaps. Maybe tomorrow he would find something to cover them.

With a sad sigh, he opened the back door of his house and stepped outside. The air was brisk, much to his surprise, and it lacked its usual heaviness and pungency. On the wind, he could smell the storm. It was going to be a bad one – perhaps even worse than the majority of the storms he had weathered since becoming an adult.

The ground was coarse and dry, and his shoes kicked up small puffs of dirt as he tapped it with the toe of his boot. When Marta had been alive, she had managed to keep their farm fresh and vibrant, like the farm across the river – better than the farm across the river. They had grown squash, and corn, and beans, and carrots, and the fig tree had been lush with green leaves and purple fruit ripe for plucking. He had been proud to be in his farm, working until the sun was dipping below the horizon, wiping salty sweat from his brow as he pulled weeds or harvested crops. Now the ground was dead and dry. They got plenty of rain, but no matter how much water the Earth sucked up, it never seemed to accept the seeds he tried to plant in the ground. Even the most intrepid plants never grew to their full potential.

Luis focused his attention on the fig tree to the right. Its dead branches reached toward the darkening sky. Roots had protruded from the dry ground, rising up like tentacles. Its trunk was still strong and its bark never seemed to chip despite how many birds liked to roost in the crooks of its many arms. As he approached the tree, somehow alive while still being dead, he was stunned by its majesty. There was something regal in its pale hue.

Electricity crackled in the air as the sky grew darker. Luis looked up at the black clouds as they blocked the last rays of light. His gaze descended to the river, whereupon he noticed two children standing on the bank across from him. Neither of them were older than sixteen, but the boy looked more suspicious than the girl. As if to confirm his thoughts, the girl raised her hand in the air and waved at him. For some reason, the gesture warmed his heart. He raised his hand in response before turning and walking back toward his cold home.

*

Since she had been a young child, Rose had always loved stew. Luis would help Marta make it, often cutting meat and preparing vegetables while she mixed together flour, salt, and pepper. Sometimes they would sing together, his gravelly voice somehow managing to complement her perfect pitch, and Rose would join in with them (though she often played in her bedroom or read in the living room because of how hot the kitchen was).

As Luis began to mix together the ingredients in front of him, he noticed Rose peek out from around the corner of the kitchen archway, looking through with a curious glint in her eyes.

“You can come in if you want,” he said in Spanish. “I could use the help.”

Rose smiled and entered the kitchen, wiping her hands on her dress. He gestured toward a stool pushed against the right wall, and Rose grasped it. Once it was placed in front of the counter, she stood on it and looked over at her father.

“Here,” he said, handing her the bowl. “Why don’t you keep mixing that, and I’ll get started on the meat.”

Rose nodded with vigor and dove her small hands into the mixture. Luis smiled as he grasped the knife from his belt and began to cut the beef into thick chunks. It was the last of their meat – he hadn’t been able to buy any in town – but he hoped this small gesture would be enough to put Rose in a good mood.

To his delight, it did. As they gathered around the table several hours later and ate together, his daughter could not stop smiling. She still did not speak, and Luis guessed she would not for quite some time, but he took the small moment of joy in stride.

As they ate, the rain began. It pattered against their roof like tiny fingers, growing in ferocity as the minutes passed. Rose’s smile dissipated once darkness completed its blockage of the sun, and wind began to push against the walls of their home with screaming persistence. Luis reached across the table and patted his daughter’s arm.

“It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll be okay.”

Even as he said the words, he felt bile beginning to climb up his throat. He hated lying to her, and he rarely did. The truth was that the Red River had a mind of its own. If it wanted to flood their home and displace them, it would without a second thought. Still, he tried to maintain the illusion that everything was okay, that tomorrow the sun would rise and the rain would cease and the Red River would remain just a distant threat – one they could deal with when the time came, rather than in the moment as its waters slipped through the cracks of their back door.

*

Luis stared at his ceiling and listened to the heavy beat of raindrops. Their intensity had grown over the hours since supper. While telling Rose a bedtime story, he had risen his voice as the sound of pounding water threatened to overtake his tone. Rose seemed comfortable, though. She had been nestled underneath her scratchy covers, her eyes glinting in the dim, yellow light that the kerosene lamp gave off.

He always hoped she was comfortable, hoped that she felt safe when they were in their home. He had seen the youth in her eyes, the tiny light that helped lift her smile and brighten her laugh, defuse after she had seen her mother buried in the ground. Sometimes she stood in the dead farm by the wooden cross that marked her grave. She would not place her hand on the marker, nor would she say anything. She would just stand in front of the plot of land and look at it with a glossy sheen in her eye. He prayed that her hope had not died with her mother. He prayed that her drive to succeed, to work hard, to maybe even change the world had not been lost with sudden tragedy.

The rain slapped against the roof with more ferocity, followed by bursts of wind that pushed against the wall, sliding into the home as the wood creaked and groaned from the duress it was under. Luis turned on his side and looked at the empty side of the bed, the side of his life that had grown as cold as the home he owned. He could no longer cry. His grief had scabbed over, and he knew picking at that scab was a precursor to a torrent of tears. It still lived in his chest, though. He felt it, a ball of fire sitting in his stomach, weak yet alive, impossible to remove. Was she lying in her bed with the same feeling? Was she looking at her wall, listening to the rain, wondering whether God was real or not because what kind of God would take her own mother so soon? Was she closing her eyes and refusing to allow her mouth to speak so that she did not have to acknowledge the earthquake that had ripped apart her heart and stabbed her soul without so much as a warning?

Luis turned on his back again, hoping that the sudden movement would jostle the thoughts from his head. To his dismay, it only intensified them.

Is she safe?

Is she happy?

Does she love me?

Does she blame me?

On her deathbed, coughing up blood and sweating profusely, Marta had told Luis that he needed to look after their daughter, that he needed to make sure she went to school and studied, and grew up to escape the Red River. The veins in her neck had burst as she had croaked her final desire; her eyes had burned with fear; her tone had been laced with the enticing coating of optimism. He had held her hand tight in his own, ignoring the warm perspiration, and committed to her desires. He could not remember the exact words he had said, but he had made a promise.

Was he following through on that promise?

Giving up on the possibility of sleep, Luis threw aside the covers and stepped out of bed. Running his hands through his hair, he stood and walked toward the door. The sound of the rain followed him, a cacophonous specter, as he made his way from his bedroom to the darkened kitchen. He turned toward the back door, toward the exit that led to his dead farm.

Is she safe?

The rain was concerning, not just because of its intensity, but because of its prolonged rage. Most rainstorms poured on their land for a matter of hours, often calming before a new day had sprung. This one was different. With its black clouds, and screaming winds, and protracted rainfall, Luis could tell this was not a typical storm.

Not allowing himself the opportunity to back down from his curiosity, he slipped on his boots and took the coat that he had draped over his chair at the dinner table.

When he opened the back door, the wind almost wrenched the knob from his hand. Holding steadfast in the face of terrifying power, Luis stepped out and pushed the door closed behind him. He could not hear the latch click over the gale, but when he removed his hands the door remained shut.

Satisfied, he turned and began to walk across the soft soil that had once been robustly alive, moving down the small incline toward the riverbank. As he did, terror began to claw at his heart, its long nails digging in.

The river was more violent that he had ever seen it. The water slashed to and fro, splashing up on the bank as its surface was disturbed by constant droplets and swirled about by the wind. The water had started its ascent toward his home, creeping up grass, splashing against the side of the bank. The current was roaring, and Luis could see bits of twigs, branches, and leaves that had been captured by the river’s mighty grasp and thrown about as it coursed toward its eventual endpoint.

This is not good.

He had been concerned that the river would flood, but he had held a small amount of hope that it would not reach their house. Now, looking at the rising water level and the ferocity of the storm, Luis was convinced he was wrong: not only was the river rising, but if the storm continued to rage, the red waters would tear his house apart. It was only a matter of time.

He looked through the slashing lines of rainwater at the farm across the river. The corn stalks had been torn apart in the storm, but it looked like the family had picked their plants clean before the rain had started.

Would they help?

It was possible. The children had seemed friendly enough. People in town varied – some were kind, others would draw their gun on him if he lingered in a shop too long. Still, this circumstance was dire. It was not as though he was showing up at their door for no reason. He would do the same for them if they showed up at his door.

In the distance, through the cold air and the violent rainfall, Luis heard what sounded like nails on a chalkboard combined with a large explosion: a cry of some kind. His head swiveled toward the woods on the right, which separated his house from others and from the main road to town. He waited, as confusion mixed with fear into a paralyzing concoction that settled in the pit of his stomach.

It came again – harsh, grating.

What the fuck is that? Luis thought.

Without waiting to find out whether it was his mind playing tricks or an animal, he turned and marched back toward his door, his boots squelching in the soft earth. How long would their rations last? A few days maybe, and that was assuming they rationed them perfectly. While he and Rose had rationed food before, there was no way of knowing when this storm was going to end, or how much food they would need to survive it.

He opened the door and closed it behind him. The house was still cold, but it was warmer than the rain that had been pummeling his skin moments before. Luis stripped off his soaked boots and wet coat, hanging it on the chair he had taken it from. He retrieved a rag from the kitchen and placed it on the floor underneath the edge of the coat to catch the errant drops it relinquished.

When he turned to return to his room, likely to toss and turn for the next few hours before his body gave out and allowed sleep, he saw Rose standing in the hallway. She was holding the kerosene lamp, and her face was full of fear.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, walking toward her. He kneeled down so he could be at her level. Tears speckled her cheeks, and her eyes were red.

Rose motioned toward the wall.

“The storm?” he asked.

Rose nodded.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” Luis said. “I’ll make sure we’re safe.”

Rose pointed at him with an inquisitive expression.

“I was checking the river,” he said. “I wanted to make sure it hadn’t risen. Let’s get you back to bed.”

He led her back to her bedroom. Though with reluctance, Rose placed the lamp on her nightstand and slid back under her covers. Luis turned the lamp down and tucked her in.

“You know I’m here to protect you, right?” he said as he did.

Rose nodded.

“You know I would never let anything happen to you, right?” he asked.

She nodded again.

“I know this storm seems scary, but I’ll always make sure we’re safe,” he said. “You don’t have to be afraid of it.”

The room was quiet, permeated only by the wind and the rain. He smiled at his daughter and leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. He waited a moment longer, hoping maybe she would speak. Maybe she would impart some wisdom to quell his own concerns, or maybe she would just confirm that she loved him and trusted him. Luis did not know which response he wanted more, but when none came he smiled at her and stood.

“I miss mom.”

Luis’s hand was wrapped around the door knob when he heard her. Rose’s voice was soft, quiet, unconfident, but it was still her voice.

He turned and looked at his daughter, wrapped up in her bed, her eyes gleaming in the soft, yellow light. He looked down at the floor, at his feet that were still damp from his excursion out in the rain.

“I miss her too,” he said, choking back the tears that so desperately wanted to be released into the world. “And I know, wherever she is, she misses you, too.”

He could not tell whether Rose was comforted by his words. He wasn’t. But maybe all she wanted was a confirmation that Marta was still out there somewhere, that hope existed, that – somehow – everything would turn out okay in the end.

Luis blew his daughter a kiss and opened the door. Rose blew one back before turning over in bed.

Once he was back in his own bed, wrapped in his own blankets, he allowed the anger, the sadness, the fear, and the terror to escape his body. He muffled his sobs with his pillow as hot tears stained his sheets. He allowed himself, for the first time in years, to grieve.

He did not remember falling asleep, but when he rose the next morning he felt like a pound of stone had been lifted from his shoulders.

Next Chapter: Jackson