It’s not an island. It’s a riverbank. Maybe a peninsula. It’s a park near the river.

“If it goes in, we have to get it,” Cyndy said.

“I wouldn’t worry either way,” Ted said.

“It was my brother’s.”

“Someone’s going to have to really smash it for it to reach the river.”

The Interstate crosses near here. The passing cars, trucks and motorcycles make roars in a vacuum, loud clicks echoing beneath. One of the pillars supporting the bridge was painted white partly, and black numbers teased what Cyndy hoped were impossibly high flood marks.

Cyndy’s brother had crashed through the barrier on the other side, but the river was the same. These waters and currents are the same.

People call this an island, she thought to herself. It’s not. It’s a park below the boulevard and near the river. Ted watched as she gazed, and they waited without conversation as others arrived. More »