I.

The river was rising. This was not news. The river was always rising in May. But this year it was rising faster than usual, and the men at the weather station were using words like "fifty-year event" and "possibly higher," which is the kind of news that makes you check your insurance and then pretend you did not.

My name is Dale Rutherford. I am forty-two years old. I drive a truck. I lived in Oklahoma and I drove trucks between Oklahoma and Missouri and sometimes further. I am divorced. My son is nineteen and studying community college in Denver and I send him money when I have it and do not when I do not. I do not hold grudges. Not against the world, not against myself.

Shelly worked at a gas station off Interstate 70. She took orders at the counter and stocked candy and sometimes talked to drivers who needed someone to talk to. She told me her name was Shelly. It might have been Shelly. It might not have been. I did not ask.

She left on a Wednesday. I was sleeping when she left. I woke up and her bag was gone and there was a cup of cold coffee on the counter and a man in a pickup truck idling in the parking lot, and I knew, without being told, that she was leaving with him.

I did not go after her. I made myself a sandwich. I drove to the rest area off I-70 and parked the truck and slept.

II.

The truck died three miles from the rest area. The wheel went into the mud and would not come out. I pushed for an hour. My arms ached. Sweat mixed with mud on my face. I stopped to rest and saw an old woman standing on a hill, watching me.

I walked over to her. "You need help?" she said.

"Nah," I said. "I got it."

She did not answer. She turned and walked away.

I pushed the truck for another thirty minutes. It came out. I looked back. Shelly was gone. Not literally gone—she was not standing there waiting to be seen. Gone in the sense that I had not seen her in three days and probably would not see her again. She might have gone with the good Samaritan. She might have gone to her family. She might be anywhere. I did not want to know.

I found a barn. It was old and smelled of hay and damp wood. I went inside and lay down on the hay and listened to the rain.

No anger. No sadness. Just... that is how it is.

III.

The next morning, the old woman was back. This time she had a can of beans and a paper cup.

"I am Hazel," she said.

"Dale."

We sat at the barn door and ate beans in silence. She told me she had lived on the farm for fifty years. Her husband died ten years ago. Her son is in California and has not visited in ten years.

"The river comes every year," she said. "But not this year."

"Why not?"

"I do not know. Just not."

We were quiet for a while.

"My girlfriend left," I said.

Hazel said: "Mmhmm."

"I do not blame her."

"Mmhmm."

No comfort. No advice. Just mmhmm.

In the afternoon, the water started going down. Not fast. Slowly. Inch by inch. I watched the river with Hazel.

"My truck is broken," I said.

"I know," she said.

"Can you help?"

"Tomorrow. Too late today."

We went back inside the barn and slept.

IV.

A week later, the flood was over.

My truck was still in the mud. I spent two days cleaning it. It started.

Hazel's house had water in it but the structure was fine. She said she was going to stay and fix it.

"I will help," I said.

I fixed the roof. I fixed the door. I fixed the fence. Hazel cooked for me. Peanut butter sandwiches and coffee.

On the seventh day, I was done.

"You leaving?" she said.

"Mmhmm."

"To Denver?"

"Mmhmm."

She handed me a paper bag. Beans and peanut butter. "For the road."

I nodded. I got in the truck. I drove three miles and looked back. Hazel was at the door. Very small. Like a dot.

I kept driving. The radio was playing country music. I opened a can of beans and ate with a spoon. The river flowed past the window. The water was gone.

Everything will be alright. Maybe not. But today, the truck drives.