Dustin cleared his throat. “My girl down there says I'm wasting time doing this. Like I should come home and just get on with it already. Maybe she's right about that for both of us.”

Joe looked out into the distance, searching for the line where land met sky. “There might be a way I can convince Stone to let you come with me. Tell him we make a good team. Batman and Robin or something.”

Dustin shook his head. “I like you just fine, Joe, but I'm nobody's Robin. Still, I'd appreciate a good word, if it gets me back home.”

He got out his own phone and offered it to Dustin. “You ever heard of a Whizbang chicken plucker? Maybe that's how you can make your millions. Impress this girl.”

Dustin laughed, delighted, as feathers flew on the phone screen. “Funny, jackass.”

JOE WATCHED THE LIGHT fade, the stars appear and twinkle. He'd find Stone in the morning, start making the arrangements. He pictured Mandy next to an open window, a cacophony of colorful birds in the burr oaks and spruce. Mandy's smile deep in her brown eyes. Mandy angelic, the sunset streaking beams of light around her. He'd grab what luck was offering here, ride it as far into the future as possible, hope his life held strong against the pressure.

Flood Stories

IN 1976, WHEN THE Big Thompson River swelled with monsoon rain and flooded the canyon, my mother, Beth, carried me to safety, climbing first up a steep mountain slope and then into a giant ponderosa pine, despite the way her mud-heavy shoes lost purchase on the rain-slick bark, despite the pitch on her fingers and in her hair. I was one year old, wrapped in a hand-stitched baby quilt she tied around herself as a sling. I squalled all night. The storm clouds obscured the moon, the night was black save for lightning, which, in its flashing, lit the churning river and the debris—some empty cars, some full of bodies, propane tanks, punctured, hissing fumes, trees as thick as the one we were perched in. Each flash of lightning revealed some new scene of horror, one Mom could see but I couldn't, and still I was the one who was crying. Mom has told this story, again and again, to me or in front of me, all of my life. “You never were easy to settle,” she says. “Nothing I did ever contented you, not even saving your life.”