She refused to let him wheel her out until he’d loaded the bags into the canoe. Only then did she give him the royal nod.

The bags took up more room in the canoe than he’d hoped. And there was still the problem of the wheelchair and its occupant.

“Well, Mr. Manager, what are you gonna do now?” she asked, more amused than terrified.

Noah shook his head. Merry residents had a little too much faith in each other. They forgot to be worried or scared, assuming that their neighbors would always have their back. And now, here he was holding a wheelchair as flood waters swirled around his knees hoping for a fucking Merry miracle.

The whistle, shrill and loud, cut through the wind.

“Need a hand?”

The voice was his salvation. It was a woman in a bright yellow slicker holding a small fishing boat in place by clinging to the top of Mrs. Pringle’s picket fence.

“Hallelujah,” Mrs. Pringle sang.

“Don’t hallelujah until our asses are safe and dry,” Noah suggested.

“Honey, after this hurricane ends, we’re gonna have a talk about your vo-cab-u-lary!”

“Yes, ma’am. But for now, I need you to stay right here.”

She harrumphed, and Noah positioned her against the front door before slogging his way toward the boat. The icy water didn’t even register anymore. He was beyond numb.

“Nice day,” the woman in the yellow slicker commented.

“Just beautiful,” he said, grabbing onto the fence. “I got a wheelchair-bound eighty-year-old and a canoe.”

“Well fuck,” the woman swore ripely. “Stu? Wheelchair.”

The man at the motor grunted. He seemed unimpressed with the circumstances. “Gonna hafta float her out,” he said finally.

He fished out a rope from the bottom of the boat and tossed one end to Noah. “You take this end and tie it around her. We’ll reel ya in.”

Noah clamped a hand around the rope and trudged back through the waters to Mrs. Pringle who was entirely too cheerful about the situation. “Ready for your ride, Miz Pringle?”

She nodded. “Let’s do this.”

He took her down the first of the steps backwards, hoping to God she and the chair would float rather than sink like a stone.

She floated, sort of. But the current was strong, and it took every ounce of Noah’s strength to keep her on course, head above water. They were both going to die of hypothermia if he couldn’t get her someplace warm and dry fast.

The woman in the boat made a grab for Mrs. Pringle’s arm. Through his rain smeared glasses, Noah couldn’t see much of her other than her height and general bedraggledness. But there was no way she was going to muscle the very solid Mrs. Pringle into the boat.

“Stu, I need your ass up here,” she yelled over her shoulder.

Mrs. Pringle tut-tutted. “You youngins and your language.”