chapter 5

ZAVION

Zavion and Papa were joined by three other people. An older woman held hands with the man and woman on either side of her and kept her eyes closed. She hummed. Zavion could only barely hear her above the roar of the rain as she hummed a low, slow song. Zavion remembered Mama’s funeral, and the long walk from the church to the cemetery. There had been a line of people walking then too, and someone had led the group in the same song. “This Little Light of Mine.” It had been Mama’s favorite, but Zavion didn’t sing it that day.

Up, not forward. Up, not forward. Up, not forward. Up, up, up. Zavion chanted this in his head to the rhythm of the grandmama’s song.

Up—Up—Up—

If only he could get to higher ground. Solid ground.

For four hours, they slogged through the black water and pelting rain and tearing wind, and then Zavion saw a small boat paddled by a man in a uniform.

“Looks like a firefighter,” Papa said.

When the man got closer, Zavion could see a gun in a holster around his waist.

“Hallelujah,” said the man who was holding hands with the grandmama. “Can you get us out of this swamp?”

“Sorry,” said the firefighter. “I can’t. I want to check to see who all’s still stranded behind you.”

“You gotta help us,” said the woman holding the grandmama’s other hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Take my mama,” said the man. “At least take her.”

The old woman opened her eyes for the first time then. Zavion saw her look at the firefighter, smile a faint smile, and, humming all the while, close her eyes once again.

“Get yourselves out of here,” said the firefighter. “Who knows if the sky will open up again.”

Zavion couldn’t imagine more water. That thick, oily taste stuck in his mouth.

“Get to the convention center,” said the firefighter.

“Which way?” asked Papa.

The firefighter pointed ahead. “Forward.”

No—

Up—

Up—Up—Up—

Zavion thought of Mama again. How she had promised to take him to her mountain. Grandmother Mountain. Up—up—up—to the top. To see the view. To see where Mama grew up. She had said they would go in the fall, when the monarch butterflies were there.

“Only we’ll be migrating north, not south,” she’d said.

“I’m sorry,” the firefighter repeated. “I’m so sorry.” Then he paddled off in the direction of Zavion and Papa’s house.

But there was no house.

Zavion felt in his pocket for the shingles. He laid them flat across both palms. Two shingles was all. But it felt as if he was holding his whole house. It had taken Zavion so long to figure out a way to restore balance after Mama died. And now—his whole house teetered there in his shaking, wet hands.

He closed his fingers around the shingles. He felt the hard, smooth slate. But he also felt wood and nails, his bedroom wall and paint too. Home. He felt home precariously balanced in the palms of his hands. Then he stuffed it all back into his pocket and began to walk again.