I waded in, boots filling, pants soaking, thinking about 6:30 the entire time.
Every minute tightened around my chest.
Five-thirty passed while we wrestled hoses and cursed rusted valves.
At 5:50, I climbed out, soaked and shaking.
“I gotta go,” I shouted to my supervisor, grabbing my bag.
He frowned like I’d just suggested we leave the street underwater.
“My kid’s recital,” I said, voice tight.
He stared for a second, then jerked his chin.
“Go,” he said. “You’re no use here if your head’s already gone.”
That was his version of kindness.
I ran.
No time to change, no time to shower—just soaked boots slapping pavement, my heart trying to escape.
I made the subway just as the doors were closing.
People edged away from me, wrinkling their noses.
I couldn’t blame them. I smelled like a flooded basement.
I stared at the time on my phone the entire ride, bargaining with every stop.
When I reached the school, I sprinted down the hallway, lungs burning harder than my legs.
The auditorium doors swallowed me into perfumed air.
Inside, everything was soft and polished.
Moms with perfect curls, dads in pressed shirts, kids in crisp outfits.
I slipped into a seat in the back, still breathing like I’d run through a swamp.
Onstage, tiny dancers lined up, pink tutus like flowers.
Lily stepped into the light, blinking.
