Chapter 8: Hauling Hope

Mom double-checked every item—three stainless bowls, spatulas, knives—all went into the bucket. She muttered, always the organizer.

Clothes and quilts were heavy, but with the temperature over eighty, we took only a few sheets to use as bundles or ropes. The rest we tied to tree trunks, hoping they’d survive the flood.

I paused, hands shaking as I knotted sheets around branches. Dad clapped my shoulder—“Good thinking, Casey.”

We packed dry food, vegetables, crop seeds, salt, medicine, lighters, candles, and of course, my axe. I tucked it into my belt, feeling a jolt of hope.

Even pared down, we had two big bags. I tied them to the motorcycle and rode the rough trail to the summit. My parents stayed behind to secure the rest.

The trail was brutal—rocks jolting my spine, weeds slapping my arms. Sweat poured down my back, but I kept going.

At the summit, the white water tower loomed, paint peeling but sturdy. Fireflies flickered in the weeds. I took my axe and smashed the rusty lock.

Inside, dust choked the air. I swept a patch of concrete, set down the bags, and hurried back.

After hauling my parents up, it was midnight. Exhausted, I made several more trips for the chickens and potatoes. Dad grinned, watching the chickens peck. "They’re tougher than us, I think."

By five a.m., I spread a sheet on the floor and collapsed into sleep, Mom humming softly as she sorted supplies.