“Sorry ma’am, but it’s bound to get worse before it gets better,” the woman said with a quick grin beneath the brim of her ball cap.

The man Noah presumed to be Stu, grimaced as he lashed another rope around the picket fence to hold the boat in place.

“Shoulda gone fishin’ in Canada when I had the chance,” he muttered under his breath. Pissed off but surefooted, Stu climbed his way to the woman. He took one look at Mrs. Pringle and swiped the hat off his head. “Gonna take more than the two of us.”

No shit, Sherlock.

“Now, I know you aren’t calling me fat,” Mrs. Pringle huffed, haughty even in floodwater up to her chest.

“What if we put the chair in first and then I boost her up to you?”

“Sounds good to me,” the woman said. “Ma’am can you hang onto the side of the boat?”

“I sure can. I go to physical therapy twice a week. I can bicep curl five pounds.”

Noah kept one arm around Mrs. Pringle’s waist while she grabbed on to the boat. “Ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” She curled her fingers tighter, and Noah pushed and pulled the chair out from under her. He muscled it up one-handed until one of the handles popped out of the water. His biceps screamed until Stu grabbed the arm of the chair and hauled it aboard.

Noah ran through his list of things he was going to do when the hurricane was over. Hug his daughter. Shower. Put on dry socks. Eat a steak. Sleep for twenty-four hours.

But first he had to get Mrs. Pringle on that boat.

“Current’s picking up,” Stu observed. He sounded like he was describing the night’s dinner specials.

Noah was well aware of the current. The water rushing around his legs and waist was pulling on him like a riptide. Debris and flotsam smacked into him with alarming and painful frequency.

He hefted, and they hauled. Together they managed to wrangle Mrs. Pringle over the side of the boat. She landed unceremoniously, and the boat slashed gracelessly back to an even keel. Noah was just reaching for the hand the woman in the yellow rain coat offered when something big and unwieldy hit him with the force of a speeding truck.

He saw the tattoo on the inside of her wrist. A tiny hammer. And then the water closed over his head. His legs swept out from under him. He was an idiot. He was going to drown in water the color of chocolate milk. Sara was going to grow up without him. He’d miss her graduation. What if she went to the wrong college? Picked the wrong guy? What if she never outgrew her obsession with clothes and boys and gossip?