The first drops fell just after dawn.
It wasn’t unusual — this was New Orleans in spring, where rain came as often as gossip. But that morning, the sky had a strange color to it, a bruised green-gray that made people glance upward and hurry inside.
By noon, the streets were rivers.
Maya Collins stood on the porch of her duplex, water already lapping over the bottom step. She was on her phone with her brother, Malik, who lived across town.
“They’re saying it’s only flash flooding,” he said, his voice breaking with static.
“Flash floods don’t last six hours,” she replied, watching trash cans and branches drift by. “The drainage pumps are failing again.”
“You should leave, Maya.”
“Leave and go where? The highways are already closed.”
A rumble of thunder rolled across the sky — not sharp, but heavy, like a promise.
She looked out at the street. The stop sign was half-submerged now. The air smelled of rain, gasoline, and something metallic — the scent of the city drowning.
Her upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Delacroix, opened her door. “They said the levee’s overflowing!” she shouted.
Maya froze. “Which one?”
“The east wall!”
That was less than three miles away.
She dropped the phone, ran inside, and grabbed her go-bag. She’d packed it after the last flood — food, flashlight, first aid, bottled water. She never thought she’d need it again.
The power flickered. Then the lights went out.
By 3 p.m., the water reached the windowsills.
Maya helped Mrs. Delacroix up to the second floor, each step slick and cold. The older woman clutched a photo frame — her husband, a Marine who’d survived Vietnam but not Katrina.
“Should’ve left when the sirens started,” she muttered.
Maya didn’t answer. She was watching the water. It wasn’t slowing — it was climbing.
She opened the window, leaning out. The street was gone, replaced by an endless sheet of gray. Cars floated like toys, bumping softly into each other.
“Boat!” someone shouted in the distance.
Maya squinted. A small aluminum fishing skiff was moving through the current, a man rowing furiously.
She waved. “Hey! Over here!”
He turned toward them, but the current was too strong. The boat drifted sideways, vanishing around the corner.
Maya slammed the window shut as another lightning bolt cracked nearby.
“We need to get to the roof,” she said.
Mrs. Delacroix shook her head. “My legs won’t make those stairs.”
Maya knelt beside her. “Then I’ll carry you.”
The woman smiled faintly. “You’re too kind, child.”
“It’s not kindness,” Maya said. “It’s survival.”
Outside, the wind began to howl. The flood had found its voice.
By night, the city was unrecognizable.
The skyline reflected in the floodwaters — a shimmering ghost of what once stood above it. Helicopters passed overhead, their spotlights cutting through the rain.
Maya had managed to get them both onto the roof. They sat under a tarp, wrapped in blankets, the rain beating a rhythm that felt almost like breathing.
“Do you think they’ll come?” Mrs. Delacroix asked softly.
“They have to,” Maya said. “Rescue crews always start at dawn.”
But she knew the truth — there were too many rooftops, too many people.
The wind tore at the tarp. Below, the water moved fast, carrying debris — doors, bicycles, even an entire shed. Somewhere, a dog barked, then stopped.
Maya checked her flashlight — weak. The batteries were dying.
She opened a can of beans and handed it to Mrs. Delacroix. “Eat something.”
The woman took a few bites, then looked at her. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re scared.”
Maya forced a smile. “Everyone’s scared.”
Thunder rumbled again, closer.
Then — a crash from below. Wood splitting, metal groaning. The foundation.
“Hold on!” she shouted.
The building shuddered. A wall gave way, water surging upward. For a moment, it felt like the whole world was tilting.
And then, everything went black.
When Maya woke, the rain had stopped.
She was lying on a door — floating, drifting. Her head ached. The city stretched out around her, half-drowned under the pale morning light.
“Mrs. Delacroix!” she shouted, throat raw.
No answer. Just the creak of water against buildings.
She paddled weakly, scanning the debris. Then she saw it — the old woman’s scarf caught on a tree branch twenty yards away. No one was with it.
Maya bowed her head. The silence pressed in like the weight of the sea.
An hour later, she heard the sound — rotors in the distance. A rescue helicopter.
She stood, waving her arms, voice breaking. “Here! Over here!”
The chopper circled once, then descended, wind from the blades scattering water like rain again. A rescue worker leaned out, shouting through the megaphone, “Stay still! We’ve got you!”
As they pulled her aboard, Maya looked down at the drowned neighborhood — rooftops, trees, memories — and felt both grief and gratitude twist together in her chest.
The rescuer wrapped her in a blanket. “You’re safe now.”
She shook her head slowly. “No one’s safe. Not really.”
He met her eyes, understanding. “But you’re alive. That’s where it starts.”
Maya looked back one last time at her home — a single roof among thousands — and whispered, “Then let it start.”
The helicopter rose into the sunrise, carrying her above the ruin of the city, toward the first dry land she’d seen in days.