Who? What? Never mind why? My brain wrestled with shock and confusion while my legs sped me instinctively downtown.

Below Fifth and 25th, no more pass-thrus, but I thought the worst was behind me. Just twelve blocks at street level, then the raised walkways at 13th. And I knew the territory.

I heard the boom and roil of water as I loped toward the exit stair. Already? I swerved toward a window gap and peered down. Sheeting rain and falling darkness, but between the blinding gusts, glimpses of foaming ripples where the street should be, where there should have been open ground. The mystery of the arrows faded as I faced this new crisis.

Tide must be coming in, with the surge behind it, pushing the levels higher. I was cut off from the downtown walkways, from any dry route home to my den.

Now what? First, beat back those early tendrils of panic. On my own with no Spunk to slap me back to reason, I had to cling tight to his training. Run through the crisis mantra: First, grab hold of yourself. Second, consider the possible.

Possibility A: shelter in the pass-thru till the storm blew over? Not a chance.

Possibility B: get swept up by Storm Worshippers if I stuck around? Next idea.

Possibility C: swim the twelve blocks. Flood water should still be shallow.

Then I remembered a new walkway at 23rd and Park Avenue South, built for high tides. Only two blocks to swim. Possibility D.

I’d never been there, but it was the best chance left. I ran the two long blocks cross town, hardly slowing to test the footbridges before I was across them. At Park and 25th, the exit stairwell roared. I closed my mind to anything but making the best move for the moment, and lowered myself into the inky void. Down, down, step by step, palms slick on the slimy railing, shoulders roughed by the mossy concrete.

Near the bottom, water swirled around my ankles, ocean chill, tang of salt, but also rot and mold. I sprang back a few steps. How deep? Had to go in to find out. Had to be now, while there was still a chance to wade the two blocks. Before the full surge rolled in.

Down, and down again. Water to my knees. Dirty with refuse. Worry about that later. The air was blood-warm, but my jaw chattered. Amazing what the body does all on its own when you’re terrified. The dark stairwell framed a faintly lighter rectangle: the exit door. Only two blocks. I hiked my grab bag up around my neck and waded into the open water.