Aby undid Margaret’s seat belt and, cupping water with her hands, washed the rust from her mother’s face. She lifted Margaret over her shoulder and began wading towards the Prairie Embassy Hotel. The closer Aby got to the hotel, the higher the water became. At the bottom of the laneway, the water was up to her chest. The front doors were already open, and in the lobby she had to swim, holding her mother in front of her. An end table floated past on a forty-five-degree angle. Books and papers bobbed. Aby carried her mother up the stairs to the second floor.
The door of room #201 was open. Aby laid her mother on the bed. Margaret’s breathing was shallow. She coughed and orange syrup spattered out of her gills. Aby left the room and looked down over the banister at the water rising quickly against the walls. Returning to the room and looking out its east-facing window, she saw only water and the tops of trees.
Margaret stirred and Aby returned to the bed. Margaret opened her eyes and coughed, rust pouring from her gills. “I want a dry death,” Margaret said.
“No, Mom. Just try to be still.”
“Aby, do you believe in the trú?”
“I’m supposed to be convincing you.”
“In my heart I know I’m following my trú.”
“Then it’s simple, Aby. Either you’re mistaken about me, or I’m mistaken about my trú.”
Margaret’s eyes closed again. Aby checked her pulse. It was weak. Water began seeping under the door of room # 201.
“I’m so sorry,” Aby said. She lifted her mother off the bed and set her on the floor. Water trickled under the door and curled under Margaret’s head. It rose steadily higher, lifting her hair and spilling onto her face. Aby watched as Margaret’s submerged gills opened and she breathed in water.