Page 50 of Night Shift

Mrs. Garcia lunges for his leash.

Another wave hits.

She goes down.

Petra charges past me.

“PETRA, WAIT!”

She barrels into the water after Mrs. Garcia.

Then stops.

Her eyes widen.

“Oh, shit.”

Water climbs past her knees.

Then her thighs.

“Petra!”

“I AM MADE OF ROCK, CALLIOPE!”

“I KNOW!”

“THIS WAS POORLY CONSIDERED!”

Another wave breaks around her waist.

Petra sinks another six inches.

I run.

Someone grabs Mrs. Garcia beneath the arms while I catch the back of Petra’s leotard. Two other people join me, pulling while Petra attempts to walk backward against several hundred pounds of herself.

“GET THE GOAT!” Mrs. Garcia screams.

“I’M TRYING NOT TO LOSE PETRA!”

“THE GOAT CAN’T SWIM!”

“NEITHER CAN PETRA!”

“I CAN HEAR YOU!”

Chorizo bleats from the shallows.

Everything becomes water and shouting.

Then the bay stops.

Not freezes.

Stops.

The next wave rises several yards offshore and seems to lose its intention. The surface shudders, then settles enough for someone to wade in and grab Chorizo’s leash.