Across the Flooded Bay

The water had risen fast. By morning, the flood had cut off the small village across the bay, and the only way in was by boat.

Marisol was loading boxes of food and clean water onto her father's old boat when an old fisherman walked down to the shore.

“You can't go alone,” he said. “The water is full of broken wood and damage from the storm. It's a real risk.”

“People over there have nothing,” Marisol said. “I have to try.”

The old man looked at the grey sky for a long moment. Then he climbed in. “Then we go together.”

They were crossing the bay when something hit the side of the boat. A tree, half under the water, scraped along the wood. Marisol's heart jumped, but the boat held. The old fisherman steered around the next dark shape without a word.

At last the water grew calm, and the village came into view. People were waiting on the high ground, waving. As Marisol passed up the first box of supplies, a child reached down for it.

The old fisherman smiled for the first time. “Now,” he said, “this was worth the risk.”