CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT #3
The wind slams the front door open, crashing it against the wall with a force that makes me flinch.
“Michael! All the backpacks are already in the truck. Let’s go!” Ryan yells from the open door.
“Sarah, now!” Michael barks, giving my hand a firmer tug as he leads me toward the porch.
I whip my head back to look at the stairs one last time, searching for James, my heart practically in my throat.
This is wrong, Sarah. He shouldn’t be alone in this house.
Come back, Sarah.
Come back to him.
“Michael, we need to go back—”
A deafening crack splits the air, and a second later the porch gives way beneath our feet, flinging us into the garden. My back slams into the soaked ground, knocking the breath from my lungs.
For a moment, everything goes dark.
But there’s something grounding me—a hand, tight around mine.
“Sarah?” Michael calls, coughing.
“I’m here,” I choke out between coughs.
Not just here, but somehow still in one piece.
The air is thick with dust, choking me. Rain soaks through my clothes, and my hair clings to my face like wet leaves.
I blink fast, trying to see through the haze, until the house comes into view. Or what’s left of it.
The lake house, our safe place, is gone.
No roof. No walls. Just a pile of shattered wood, buried by the mud that came down the hill behind the house—
“JAMES!”
A scream rips from my lungs as I push myself up. Pain shoots through my back, but I don’t care.
I search the wreckage, desperation clawing at me.
And when I find him, my heart stops.
James is pinned beneath what’s left of the staircase, jagged beams and splintered wood crushing his left shoulder. And he’s not moving.
I scramble over the debris and drop to my knees beside him, my hands trembling so badly I struggle to brush the dust off his face.
“James, open your eyes!” I plead, shaking him gently.
Please, God, let him be okay.
A low whimper escapes his lips, but his eyes stay shut. My chest tightens; I can’t see his ocean-blue eyes, and that terrifies me more than anything else ever has.
The backpack he went upstairs for is lying next to him. He must’ve made it back down before the collapse.
I shrug off James’s jacket, still draped over my shoulders, and lay it over him, as if it could shield him from the rain, the cold, the dust… everything.
Michael rushes to my side, eyes wide when he sees James.
“Oh my God,” he breathes.
“Michael!” I cry. “He’s trapped—his shoulder. Please—he’s not waking up.”
That snaps him out of it.
“We’re getting him out.”
He throws himself at the heavy beam, arms locked, trying to lift it on his own. His face twists with effort, but it won’t budge.
“Are you guys okay?” Ryan’s voice cuts through the chaos behind us.
“Help! We need help!” Michael shouts over his shoulder.
Ryan comes running, skidding to James’s side.
“Oh shit—James?! Is he breathing?”
“Yes, but we need to move this.”
“What do I do?”
“Grab that side. I’ll lift on three.”
“Okay. Okay, ready.”
“One—two—three!”
They heave together, grunting with the effort, muscles trembling under the weight. Dirt kicks up around their boots as the beam shifts to the side, just enough to pull it off James.
Relief floods me, but it doesn’t last. James’s shirt is torn open at the shoulder, and something’s definitely wrong. There’s no blood, no cut, but the bone’s not where it’s supposed to be.
I bite my lip, swallowing down a cry. “Is he going to be all right?”
“Yes, he will. I promise,” Michael says, already reaching to lift James. “Let’s get him up.”
Ryan jumps in, and together they haul him up, one on each side.
I grab the backpack and hurry after them as Michael and Ryan help James toward the blue truck parked by the lake.
As we leave the wreckage behind, I think things can’t possibly look worse. But the scene ahead proves me wrong.
The lake, usually calm and still, is a stormy ocean now, raging and wild. Its waters have spilled over, turning the yard into a swamp of thick mud.
Michael and Ryan load James into the back seat of the blue truck. I toss the backpack into the bed and climb in beside him.
I pull his head into my lap, wrapping my arms around him as if I can protect him just by holding him close.
“Michael, we need to hurry,” Ryan says.
Michael scans the mess around us, his eyes locking on the red pickup parked out front, loaded with our emergency backpacks. Lorelai’s at the window, pressing both hands against the glass, watching us.
“Go ahead, we’ll follow you,” Michael tells Ryan.
Ryan nods, sprints to his truck, and fires it up. In a blur, he’s gone, his taillights vanishing down the hidden trail through the forest.
Michael turns to me. “Don’t worry. We’ll find another place.”
He pulls my door shut, climbs into the driver’s seat, and turns the key. But instead of the comforting roar of the engine, there’s only a weak wheeze.
Michael curses under his breath, turning the key again and again, like sheer willpower might bring it to life.
“Come on, you piece of crap!” he growls, slamming his fist on the wheel.
And then, finally, the truck sputters to life.
Michael doesn’t wait for a second invitation. He hits the gas, following Ryan’s trail. The truck bounces and rattles violently, tires slipping as we plow through mud, broken branches, and puddles.
I glance in the rearview mirror, watching what’s left of the lake house vanish into the storm, swallowed by darkness. Everything we built, everything we thought would last is gone. Like it was never even real.
When we reach the highway, it looks nothing like I remember from three months ago. Trees are down everywhere, blocking parts of the path, and mud pours across the pavement like an angry river.
Lightning streaks across the sky, and in the distance, I spot flames licking at the horizon where a tree must’ve been struck. It feels as if the whole world is falling apart, and we’re trapped in the heart of it.
Soon, I spot two red taillights glowing faintly on the far side of the bridge, the same one we crossed three months ago on our way here.
“There!” I jab a finger toward the lights on the road. “That’s Ryan and Lorelai. They’re waiting for us.”
Ryan and Lorelai jump out of their truck, shouting and waving their arms, but the rain’s so loud we can’t hear a thing.
“What the hell are they doing?” Michael asks.
My stomach drops. Something’s wrong.
“Michael, stop the car!”
Michael slams on the brakes, and the truck screeches to a halt just a third of the way across the bridge.
Suddenly, a roar drowns out the rain, and the bridge starts to shake beneath us.
“Michael, go back!” I shout, wrapping my arms around James and pulling him closer. His eyes are still closed.
Michael throws the truck into reverse, the engine roaring as he floors it. The truck jerks backward, lurching off the crumbling bridge. Within seconds, we’re back on solid ground, tires slapping mud instead of trembling concrete.
Lorelai shouts something—my name, maybe—but the storm swallows it whole. She starts to run toward us, but Ryan grabs her arm, yanking her back just before a wall of mud crashes down into the bridge.
I watch, frozen, as the bridge groans one final time before it gives way, collapsing into mud, rocks, and shattered wood, leaving nothing but destruction behind.
Lorelai’s eyes find mine through the chaos. She holds on for one last second, until the mud swallows everything between us.
I can’t see her anymore.
And we never had the chance to say goodbye.