Flood Rising

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Jenna Flood realized two things in the time it took the black numbers on the silver, liquid crystal display to tick between 55 and 54: she was looking at a bomb and she had less than a minute to live.

49…

48…

Jenna took a step back. Her flip-flops slapped against the soles of her feet, the only noise she could hear over the sound of blood roaring in her ears. She wasted the precious seconds wavering in indecision.

Listen to your gut, her father was fond of saying, but make up your own damn mind.

He seemed to always have sage one-liners ready, like some ancient wise man. His first name was actually Nathan, but everyone called him ‘Noah.’ Noah Flood. Despite the funny looks he got when people first heard the name, Jenna thought it actually pleased him to be nicknamed for the world’s most famous mariner. He had been Noah to her since she could talk — not Dad or Daddy.

Jenna’s ability to separate gut instinct from thoughtful rationale was not as finely tuned as Noah’s, which was almost certainly the very point he was trying to make. A visceral gut reaction could alert a person to very real dangers, which was a possibility for an adolescent girl in South Florida. The human body had only two responses to those instinctive warning signals: fight or flight.

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