Nestled under an old blanket, a fire extinguisher, and a toolbox is a length of chain. I always keep a chain in my Jeep for those few times each winter when an inch of snow causes Virginia to collapse in chaos, with cars and trucks off the freeway.

I hook the chain onto the trailer hitch, and the Hispanic man, eager to help, grabs the other end of the chain, goes down to the overturned car, fastens it to the rear axle.

He waves at me. “¡Rápido! Please!”

I get back into the Wrangler, shift it into low, and then look at the side-view mirror, get a glimpse of the chain, and see it move up and get taut.

Now.

I hit the accelerator, the wheels churn and spin, and I make a few feet of progress. I look up again and the Chevrolet is moving. It’s moving.

Damn!

The current has grabbed the Chevy and is taking it downstream.

And me along with it.

The Wrangler stumbles back, I shift again, pumping the accelerator, and I don’t think I’m going to make it. In my mind’s eye, I can see it all, the Chevy dragging me in, the fastened chain linking my Wrangler, no way to get out, nothing to do but open the door right now and dive out onto the soggy embankment.

Damn it!

I see quick movement.

Men and women are in the water, holding on to the floating Chevy, pushing it to shore, and I hit the accelerator again, and now I’m going, now I’m going. I drag the overturned vehicle a few meters and stop.

The Chevrolet is out of the water. The driver’s-side door flops open. Water streams from it. The Hispanic father has a hammer in his hand, and he’s joined by a bulky woman in dungarees with a crowbar, and both of them attack the windows.

I get out and slop through the mud, and by the time I get to the car, a young woman, a little girl, and a little boy have been dragged out.

They’re coughing, they’re choking, but they’re alive.

I stop in knee-deep water, breathing hard, as the sirens start wailing in the distance.

A local volunteer fire department and its ambulance arrive, along with a number of volunteers with flashing red lights in their vehicles’ grilles. Then a Texas state trooper arrives, and names are taken, and photographs, and statements, and the Hispanic father—named Carlos—keeps on hugging me, and hugging me, and all the while I’m thinking, I’ve got to go, but I can’t race away, because that will raise too many questions.

The rain finally lets up as I get away from the crowd of rescuers, onlookers, EMS, and law enforcement, and with wet and muddy boots, I get back into the Wrangler.