Flint

Middle of a damn hurricane and the girl was here. Marcie.

He and Isobel had waited out the first half of the storm in her house’s only bathroom—too much like last time, except just the two of them now, the bathtub filled with water and each of them at separate corners of the tiny room, Flint telling himself, over and over, that he didn’t care what happened to Marcie. Whether she was safe.

In the eerie silence of the eye he’d heard sounds from outside—an engine starting up, the dull thud of a car door. Someone thinking the storm was over. Isobel’d made him go check on the moron, and he’d seen that the car was in his own driveway, his front door gaping open. Goddamn looters.

Unarmed and old and fucking lame, what did he think he was going to do? But he’d been inside the back door before he’d thought, seen the silhouette of a strange man standing in his hallway, and his rage roared up. If Flint had had his old .45 the man standing there would have been down before he’d said a word.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

When he whipped around, Flint saw Marcie standing there, and relief cascaded over him. “Don’t you even know enough to get out of the way of a storm, you idiot?”

“Who are you?” the man challenged, blocking Marcie again with his body.

“This is my goddamn house. Who are you?”

“It’s okay,” Marcie said, pushing past the man. And then to him: “Where were you?”

“You need to get the hell out of here. The island’s gonna flood.”

“I told you, Marcie,” the man said. “Come on.”

“You keep out of it!” Flint barked the words.

“Stop it!” Marcie glared at Flint. “Come on—Jeff’s car is out front.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then neither am I.”

Little stick of a thing, arms crossed, jaw set. Facing off with him like a pit bull.

“Suit yourself.” Flint turned for the back door.

“Idiotic,” he thought he heard that son of a bitch say, and Flint turned around.

“Hurry up, if you’re coming. And bring that asshole with you if you have to.”