Salt Water and Static

The water rose at 2 AM, as though the ocean itself had decided to reclaim what property developers had stolen. Elena stood in her sister's guest house, ankle-deep in brine, watching the Persian carpet float like a jellyfish. This was supposed to be her escape—a week of solitude in her sister's luxury rental property while Maya was in Paris doing whatever it was Maya did now. Something with hedge funds or cryptocurrency or whatever called itself work when you had eight million dollars and a panic room.

The cable had gone out first. Elena had been watching a nature documentary about octopuses—ironic now, given the circumstances—when the screen dissolved into static. Then the power flickered and died. Then she'd heard the water gurgling up through the drains, rising faster than panic could.

Now she stood on the bed, clutching her phone, the flashlight beam cutting through darkness that smelled of salt and decay. On the nightstand sat a papaya she'd bought yesterday at the overpriced organic market, her attempt at wellness, at becoming the sort of person who ate papayas instead of microwaved burritos. It was already softening, its skin mottling like a bruise.

"You're thirty-four," she whispered to herself. "You should have savings. You should have a lease longer than six months. You should know how to swim."

But she didn't. Not really.

Her phone buzzed—Maya, calling from Paris. How could Maya know? How did she always know?

"Are you safe?" Maya's voice was tinny through the speaker, barely audible over the water lapping at the bed frame.

"I'm on the bed. It's—"

"The papaya," Maya said. "Did you eat it yet?"

Elena stared at the fruit. "What?"

"Mom always ate papaya when she couldn't sleep. Did you know that?"

"I don't remember Mom eating papaya."

"That's because you were twelve. You only remember what you saw."

"Maya, the house is flooding. I can't talk about Mom's insomnia."

"The insurance company called me. They said it's a freak storm surge. Unprecedented. They're sending someone tomorrow. If there's anything left."

"If there's anything left."

"I'm sending you money for a hotel. Go to the Marriott on the highway."

"I can't—there's water everywhere."

"Then wait. The water will recede. Everything does eventually."

Elena ended the call without saying goodbye. The papaya sat soft and dying beside her. The static on the television screen had faded to black. The water kept rising, inch by inch, as the ocean taught her what happened when you tried to hold back the tide: you learned to float, or you drowned. Everything else was just noise in the dark.