“Can I do something for you?” she asks, voice rough with warning as he steps closer. He’s at least a foot taller than her, but Jaima juts her chin high, her gaze resolute and uncompromising. She watches him, watches the way he watches her, and when he touches her shoulder, she stiffens, jerks away. “Stop that,” she says, voice gone cold, like the river’s threat.

  “Why you always ignoring me, huh?” he asks, and he’s back to touching her shoulder, lingering for a moment. She swallows, watches as his rough, calloused fingers start to play with the strap of her sundress. “You’re such a pretty girl, always showing off for me in the store,” he tells her, his words low and gruff.

  Jaima hates him so much right then, thinks about Sweet Ma’s shotgun under her bed, thinks about running to get it, but her feet have turned to stone. “Move your hand or I’ll scream, I swear,” she whispers, because he doesn’t have a right to her, not like he has a right to everything else. Her body wants to run, but it’s stuck like those deer by the pool, sensing the danger but not able to move. He moves even closer, pushes at the strap of her dress, pushes it almost off her shoulder, and she feels everything in her body trying to break free from her, the tears behind her eyelids burning, wanting to pour out.

  She closes her eyes, feels the river rise inside of her, gathers enough energy to jerk away from his touch. She stumbles back, her boots catching in the long grass. She looks at him and says, “Stay away from me from now on or I’m telling.”

  “Girl, you ain’t telling nobody,” he mutters, stepping toward her again. “Not if you want to keep your land. Not if you want to keep the peace.” He moves quick, grabs her by the arms and pulls her in close. She struggles in his grip, his rough fingers digging into her flesh. He’s too hot, too stinking, too heavy, and she’s choking on it. This close she can see his eyes: the black rimming a green iris. She can see every part of his face: the pink pimples on his forehead and the peeling red patches of sunburned skin above his nose. She freezes, turns her face away when he kisses her cheek, runs his mouth down along the side of her face, slipping along her sweaty neck. The rough bite of his stubble scratches her skin. Bruises her.

  “Been wanting you,” he whispers, squeezing her arms tight before he grabs her at the joint of her neck to pull her in so he can whisper against her ear, “You like me, right, Jaima?”

  She stiffens at hearing her name in his mouth. He pulls her face between his hands and looks at her. “You can just stay quiet and I can do the work,” he says, and he bends to kiss her mouth. His lips are dry, cracked, taste like salt. She opens her mouth slowly, pretends she’s playing along, and then bites down on his soft bottom lip. Ass.

  Bobby Jr. jerks away, pulls his meaty hand back, and slaps her cheek. The sharp sting is enough to startle her, her face sparking with fire. She’s set in motion now, and turns and runs and runs, everything a sudden blur. Her body crashes through the trees, her boots knock down the weeds, and her dress snags on the branches. She’s afraid he’s going to follow, catch her and keep her out here in the woods with the sun setting too fast. But all she hears is his yelling, no sounds of a chase.

  She stops minutes later, heart pounding, a surge of power rushing through her veins as she turns to look back at him. His bulky frame is cast as a silhouette against the burnt-orange sky. He’s standing there calling her a bitch, telling her to come on back, to stop playing around.

  Jaima laughs at him, loud and reckless, her whole body filling up with the sound. At this moment, she’s made of laughter and surging water, ready to drown him like the giant tsunami that would follow the shaking of the entire world.

  Jaima doesn’t tell anyone. Doesn’t even consider calling the sheriff’s station, because most of the boys who work there are kin to the Greers anyway. Instead, she spends the next day in bed, her belly hurting so much she almost asks to go see Doc Murphy. Sweet Ma brings her funny-tasting tea made from the herbs she grows in the backyard and feeds her tomato soup for lunch and dinner. Jaima sleeps mostly, tired as tired can be.

  Reggie visits her on the second day of her self-imposed bed rest, and she doesn’t know how he knows, but she can tell it in his hard eyes the minute he walks in, see it in the tight line of his body.

  “Nothing happened,” she says, sitting up in bed.

  “Malcolm sure saw something,” he says, voice hoarse and dry like he’s swallowed grit. “I’ll kill that piece of shit Greer, you know I will, Jaima.” He’s trembling with rage, his jaw pulsing as he looks at her.

  Jaima closes her eyes and inhales sharply. She remembers that the twins had been running around out there somewhere, realizes they must have headed back early and seen her. Jaima opens her eyes but doesn’t look at Reggie, can’t look at him. She just picks at a piece of string unwinding in the seam of Sweet Ma’s quilt and frowns. “Just tell them not to say anything to Sweet Ma, all right?”

  Reggie sits down at the foot of the bed, his weight causing the old mattress to dip. He exhales loudly and asks, “You really think Sweet Ma won’t find out?”

  Jaima shrugs. Of course Sweet Ma is going to find out. Sweet Ma finds out all.

  Jaima looks up at him after a time. He’s looking at her like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. He’s the oldest of Sweet Ma’s grand­babies, and he is handsome in a sharp kind of way. Stubborn in a sharp kind of way too. If he doesn’t get killed fighting somebody, he’ll probably go on to be a lawyer and come back and use that to settle all the things that need settling out here.

  But for now, Reggie has to know they can’t do anything about the Greers without bringing trouble and risking more. “You can’t go after him.” She says it aloud so he hears it spoken.

  “I know.” Reggie snorts softly to himself, shakes his head. “Don’t mean I don’t want to.” He sighs and looks at her for a long moment, eyes dark and serious, before adding, “He could still come after you. Hurt you. Or worse.”

  Jaima’s limbs feel numb, her fingertips twitch on the quilt. Two summer ago, before Reggie left for college, they were arguing about her not knowing how to swim and why it was dumb that she was so scared of the water. She doesn’t really remember all of what they said to each other beside that, just that they had gotten angrier and angrier, likely yelled about everything and nothing, about the weight of being oldest, the fear of leaving family. She does know that at some point in the heat of the moment Reggie had smacked her hard, knocking her against a tree, leaving her lip swollen. She’d covered her face and run to the house, tears streaming down her cheeks. They never talked about it, but she knows he’s probably thinking about it now, how he hurt her once too, took his anger out on her. But Reggie’s never hurt her again, and if anything, he’s gotten more protective. Even told her once how it ain’t right for powerful people to hurt people just to feel good about themselves.

  She can’t tell for sure if that’s what he’s thinking now, not with that stone-faced look of his, so she reaches out and takes his hand and squeezes. “I’ll be careful.”

  Reggie looks at her and nods, squeezing her hand in return. “Okay,” he says. Their brains like to fight, sure, but he’s also the one who used to sit with her on the porch after dinner and help her with her social studies homework. He’s the one who used to catch grasshoppers with her in the backyard, and pat her back when she cried about her parents being at the bottom of the river. Reggie is the only one she ever told about sometimes wanting to kiss Byronisha.

  When Reggie gets up to leave, he glances back at her over his shoulder and nods to her before he exits. Jaima feels better knowing he’ll keep this secret too.

  In the dream she’s breathing underwater. She’s swimming in the deep, dark depths, and the world is foggy and blue and infinite. There’s something glowing down in the dark, near the riverbed, something that looks like a ball of fire burning even underwater. She swims toward the flame, and she laughs in joy when she finally reaches it, holding it tightly in her hands. The light grows so strong, she has to close her eyes. In the distance she can hear her name being called—it sounds like a man and a woman telling her to Hold on, baby girl, just hold on.

  Jaima wakes up to the sound of raindrops falling heavy on the tin roof, the metallic thump-thump rhythm mimicking her own heartbeat. She keeps her eyes closed for a long moment, the memory of light still shining behind her lids. She feels a deep sense of loss, even as the sound of her name slowly fades from her mind. When she finally opens her eyes, Jaima sees Sweet Ma sitting in the old wooden rocker in the corner of her bedroom, fanning herself and watching The Price Is Right on the small box TV on top of the dresser. The volume is low, and scrolling across the bottom of the screen Jaima can just make out warnings about heavy rains and flash flooding in the area. Jaima places her palm over her tender belly, breathes out uneasily. Her hand feels warm against her skin, still tingling from the dream fire.

  “You know my nerves get bad when y’all get sick,” Sweet Ma says, turning to look at Jaima. “How’s your tummy, girl?”

  “Better,” Jaima says, yawning as she sits up and tosses the quilt aside. “Needed the sleep, I guess.”

  Sweet Ma hmmms, rocks back and forth in her chair. Jaima looks at her for a long time in the dim room light. Jaima knows that her mama looked a lot like Sweet Ma—she’s seen pictures from her mama’s childhood. Both of them were small and delicate, with a thick nest of kinky hair that they kept twisted up around their heads. Sweet Ma is wearing her hair down today though. It makes a ring around her head, silver and black curls that dangle like moss hanging from a cypress tree.

  Sweet Ma has lit all the candles on the dresser top, and their warm light flickers over her face, makes it seem softer and younger. Maybe more like what her mama would have looked like if she’d lived, Jaima thinks. In the soft light of the room, Sweet Ma’s skin is the color of copper pennies.

  In a memory that is probably more dream than actual memory, Jaima is with her mama, who is singing while putting rainbow beads on Jaima’s braids. They’re sitting together and singing along to the radio, and when her mama pulls her into her lap, the memory morphs into another one—the two of them rocking back and forth in a porch swing. It’s nighttime and Jaima is barefoot, and the soft cotton nightgown she wears is too thin in the chilly night air. But it doesn’t matter because she’s with her mama and they are watching the moon.

  “When I was a girl,” Sweet Ma says, breaking Jaima out of the memory, “the river flooded like it did that year it took my baby girl, your mama.”

  Jaima looks up at her again, and Sweet Ma is looking at her like she’s looking back in time. “Another great flood?” Jaima asks.

  “There’s always another great flood,” Sweet Ma says with a nod. “The waters came and the river rose, and it chased us into the hills.”

  “That river is greedy,” Jaima says, breathing it out, feeling it dance inside of her.

  “Or maybe,” Sweet Ma says, her lips curving softly, “it’s just a river. Doing what rivers do.”

  Through the next night her dreams are troubled, memories of the past mixing with pieces of her present life, swirling storms and lights at the bottom of the river, Bobby Jr.’s face and his hands tugging at her. The next day the rain comes down like a slow release. Jaima’s belly feels a little better, although it’s still rumbling when Byronisha comes by during one of the storm’s midday lulls. Her friend says she wants to spend some time outside after being cooped up all weekend with the baby, but Jaima thinks Byronisha is worried Jaima’s turning into a hermit. So Jaima peels herself out of bed, tosses on sweatpants, an old T-shirt, rain boots, and a raincoat. Byronisha is similarly dressed, the hood of her yellow raincoat covering most of her cherubic face.

  The two girls walk the perimeter of the house for a time, watching the gray clouds move in a slow dance across the sky. They go down to the edge of the property line, close enough to see the river beyond.

  “The water’s high, all right,” Jaima says, watching the churning rush of it as it curves around the bend next to their land.

  “High enough to crest,” Byronisha says, entwining her arm with Jaima’s as they continue down through the tall grass.

  It starts to sprinkle again, the raindrops falling slow and fat, spattering Jaima’s forehead and running down her cheeks. Near the bottom of the property they encounter the twins, barefoot and shirtless, covered in thick, black mud. The boys have matching guilty gummy smiles, their identical pairs of brown eyes wide with surprise.

  Jaima takes in the ditch filled with muddy water and shakes her head. Beside her, Byronisha is cracking up, praying in between garbled breaths: “Lord, I ain’t ready for this. Please let my boy have the sense you gave him.”

  Jaima just shakes her head, too tired to ask how long they’ve been fighting in the muddy ditch. “Get on home, and get cleaned up,” she tells them instead. “And if you track anything into Sweet Ma’s house—”

  Martin stops her from fussing by wrapping his disgusting arms around her waist, and then darts away when she tries to grab hold of him. Malcolm is slower in his escape, stopping in front of Jaima, his cheeks scrunching up and his forehead wrinkling as he asks, “Did you hear what happened to Bobby Jr.?”

  Jaima frowns, the world tilting just so. “What do you mean? Did Reggie do something?” she asks, worry filling her already pained gut.

  “Nah, man, it was the high water!” Malcolm says, excited. “Yesterday the highway washed out down by the Greer place. They say Bobby and his truck got stuck in the deep water.”

  “Yeah, I heard some roads got closed because of high water,” Byronisha says, coming closer. “They had to rescue some folks stranded out by the bridge.”

  “Well, they say it took three people to pull Bobby free. All that water flooded his truck,” Malcolm said, smiling like he’s the cat that caught the canary.

  “I hadn’t heard,” Jaima says, dropping her hand on top of the boy’s slick shoulder and squeezing gently, thanking him silently for the news. Malcolm’s grin widens and then he shakes his head at her, sending droplets of rain flying everywhere. Jaima jumps back, watches as he runs off after his twin. The world is hazy with rain.

  “Those Greers are such creeps,” Byronisha says, sliding her hood back over her head of slick curls. “A big old family of creeps.”

  Jaima nods, closing her eyes, shivering; everything around her rocks like she’s on a boat at sea. Her belly sloshes joyously, and Jaima can’t help herself—she laughs, soft at first, like a whisper, and then louder when she opens her eyes and feels the rain on her skin. It’s a good rain, ozone-rich.

  “Girl, you okay?” Byronisha asks, and Jaima laughs even louder, taking her friend’s hand and twirling her around and around until they’re both dizzy. And then, oh God, the rain. Falling warm and sweet and necessary, a solid sheet coming down and soaking them to the skin in only a few seconds. Jaima laughs into the breaking sky and then takes off running, Byronisha right behind her.

  They race through the grass, Jaima edging just a fraction ahead before the ground slips from under them. Jaima slides first, her boots losing their grip in the bubbling mud. The weight of her body pulls her down into the half-filled ditch, and Byronisha comes tumbling in after. The fall happened so fast, Jaima doesn’t even know what to say when she looks around and realizes they are lying together in the muddy runoff at the bottom of the ditch, still laughing like children.

  Byronisha’s body rests on top of hers, heavy and familiar. The heat curling in Jaima’s gut feels different now, wilder, like the storm. Above them, the rain has slackened, the blue sky near visible.

  “Damn, girl,” Byronisha giggles as she looks down at Jaima. Her arms tighten around Jaima’s waist as she says, “Good thing I caught you.”

  “Good thing,” Jaima says, a laugh hiccupping from her throat as she takes in the sticky muck tracking down Byronisha’s face and neck. Both of them are wet through and through, clothes clinging and hanging. Arms and legs covered in the mud and grassy debris of the ditch. Hurricane girls, she’ll call them from now on. Storm-born girls.

  “You ain’t scared?” Byronisha asks, nodding to the water pooled around them. Jaima knows they could drown in even a few inches of water, but the feel of it sliding around her is soothing. Jaima thinks about how Bobby Jr. could have been swept away yesterday—wonders if he even understands how close he came. How the river could take him anytime it wants.

  “Not scared,” Jaima says, curling her arms around Byronisha, feeling the other girl’s warm breath on her cheek. Byronisha rests her head on Jaima’s shoulder.

  They’re quiet for a time. Jaima listens to the sounds of the storm receding—the drips and drags and distant roars. She listens to the breathing of her best friend, imagines the air moving in and out of her lungs, the blood running through her veins, the same blood spilled long ago in the ground around them, when their people first made a home here.

  Jaima thinks: their bodies are blood and earth. Their bodies are water. The thought of it sends shivers up and down her spine. She imagines her belly full: her inner river cresting, rushing and widening. Greedy, hungry, but patient. She squeezes her eyes tighter, lets herself go under. Her heart thumps loudly as she surfaces.

  When Jaima opens her eyes, Byronisha is looking down at her, her eyelashes wet, lips quirked. “Good thing I like weirdos,” Byronisha says.

  Jaima snorts, then leans in and kisses the other girl’s cheek, sloppy and warm. Byronisha giggles, pulls them closer, and slides them deeper into the mud. They’re a mess and a half.

  “I think I’m ready,” Jaima whispers after a time.