#water reservoirs can’t handle the amount of water anymore

[holosaur]

Everyone in my region and Czech Republic please stay safe 🩷

[comeandreadawhile]

Ripples

MCU Marvel

2018 Words

Seaside doctor Stephen just happens to have an injured mer-man and mer-pup wash up on his section of the beach following a hurricane.

It seemed that the longer Stephen Strange lived on Earth, the more he was shown just how apt his name was.  Even something as inconvenient as a tropical storm rolling in couldn’t pass without leaving something for him in its wake; however, even the training of Kamar-Taj that had given him the ability to return to somewhat of a mundane life couldn’t have prepared him for the stress the day after the storm would bring, or the bodies laid out in the surf some yards down from the beach house’s deck Stephen had sought to take his coffee on.  

The coffee mug was forgotten on a deck chair as Stephen was rushing out across the sand, worried from the bright red marking the sands that he’d been too late, and he cursed himself for forgetting his phone—and the prospect of ambulances with it—in the house.  Stopping just short of where high tide would’ve reached hours earlier, Stephen could see that while there was some blood mixed into the sand, the bright red he saw decorated the tails emerging from the bodies’ torsos; merfolk.  He would later chuckle to himself how wrong the myths were about fish tails compared to the seal-like brightly colored tails of these two—an adult male and a mer-pup Stephen assumed was the offspring or the ward of the former. Once he composed himself from the shock, it was time to get to work.

Tony awoke slowly, vaguely aware of how his body ached.  The memories of the storm came just as sluggishly as he tried to get a grip on his senses, and all at once the panic set in to find his baby unharmed.  

As he jolted up as far as his body allowed, he realized he was not in the ocean, and while his boy wasn’t far, he was indeed in the clutches of a tall human.  As the human went about wrapping something thin and white about Peter’s arm, the mer-pup spotted his father in the reservoir on the other side of the room and waved to him, causing the human to follow his gaze.  

Stephen simply grinned and went back to bandaging the mer-pup’s arm, throwing a greeting over his shoulder.  “You’ve been out for a couple days; I was beginning to get worried.”  He noticed the merman beginning to take notice of the bandages his own body was wrapped with, shifting about carefully atop the towel Stephen laid out before filling the tub.  A few glances over while making sure Peter’s bandages were secure told him just how the merman felt about Stephen handling his son.  Lifting the mer-pup from the sink, Stephen could see the father tensing in the corner of his vision before he made his way to lower the boy into the tub. Little ripples from the immersion turned to happy splashes from Peter’s excited swimming, and Stephen could see the tension in the merman’s eyes melting as he held his pup close.

He gave the mer-pup a gentle reminder that too much splashing would unravel the bandages, and the waves died down some before he turned his attention to his other patient again.  “How’re you feeling?”  Stephen could see the hesitation in to answer in the merman’s eyes.

“I’m alright.”

“Well I could’ve guessed that since you’re not bleeding out anymore, but if you’re in pain I can try to figure out a dosage of painkillers to give you.”  After seeing the damage done by the storm he’d stitched up, Stephen would’ve called him a liar to say he wasn’t in any pain.  Once more, he saw hesitation in the merman’s brown eyes.

“That’d be nice, thank you.”  

When the time came a few days later to send his patients back to the ocean, Stephen thought that would be the end of things until the next time his life proved his surname correct.  As he watched the two bright red tails drift farther and farther outside of the groin walls turning his section of the beach into a cove, he was sure he’d never spot the two again.  Thus, two weeks passed in a mundane fashion.  

It had been a couple days past a fortnight when Stephen was distracted from the textbook manuscript he’d been proofreading by a frantic splashing down the beach.  While he had briefly entertained the thought of his inhuman patients visiting, he had hoped their return would’ve been under better circumstances than their first meeting.  When Stephen finally rose to see what was causing the splashing, he wished he’d brought the first aid kit with him to the door.  On the edge of the beach, the bright red tail of his departed patient beat repeatedly into the surf—Stephen supposed to make enough noise to get his attention—as the father clutched his visibly bleeding pup to his chest, surrounded by gouges in the sand where an attempt to crawl was started before thought better of.  Backtracking only to swipe a clean towel from the kitchen, Stephen felt he was reliving the same moment he had felt lucky to have fixed the last time; but today there was more blood in the water.  

Tony waited with baited breath as he watched the form of the healer hurriedly move about the house, and had begun to panic when the man had left the house for a brief while.  By the time it was dark, the man had returned and walked down the sands to where Tony lay in the high tide surf. The man seemed much calmer now, and Tony took more than a bit of comfort from the tired but triumphant look in the healer’s blue-green eyes.  

“Would you come with me now?” Tony could’ve laughed at the question, as he’d refused earlier to be carried to the house until Peter was stable; he’d simply shoved the boy into this man’s arms and pleaded he hurry away to heal him while Tony himself waited on the beach’s edge.  At last when the first stars were beginning to shine, Tony felt himself breathe again and he nodded to the man waiting to take him inside to Peter.

Stephen hadn’t forgotten the weight that came with a body having a muscular tail instead of legs, but he lifted the mer-man up all the same and tried not to cringe when a large tail splattered seawater across the side of his pants.  

“You know,” he started. “If I’m going to continue carrying you into my house and fixing you and your son up, I think we should exchange names before it gets awkward.”  For a moment, Stephen felt the arms around his neck tighten a little before he received an answer.  

“Thank you, for this.  I didn’t know where else to go.”  Stephen could hear the exhaustion that panic seemed to always leave behind lacing the mer-man’s voice.  “My name’s Tony.”

“Well Tony, I’ll have to get you a whistle for next time; let’s hope next time never happens, of course, but just in case.” Finally making it back to the door, Stephen had to adjust Tony so one of his hands was free to open it.  “If you find yourself without a whistle and can’t splash for long, you can call me Stephen.”

While he had hated to leave for any amount of time, once Peter was in stable condition Stephen had left him on a towel in the half-filled kitchen sink, the clean dishes having been moved to the counter, and went shopping.  Seeing as the pair would likely be in the house for at least a couple weeks, Stephen couldn’t justify keeping them in the bathtub for the duration of that time; despite the cashier’s odd look and reminder of the summer ending, he didn’t regret buying a kiddie pool in the slightest.

The plastic basin was surrounded and lined with towels, so spilled water wouldn’t flood over the wood floor and the mer-folk inside could have something soft to lie on.  Stephen could hear Peter beginning to stir and splash around in the sink, and Tony had peered over the man’s shoulder toward the noise.

“Peter?  Where’s Peter?” he inquired as Stephen set him in the pool.  In the dim light from the lone kitchen light, Stephen could see that the mer-man’s vibrant red tail was decorated with flecks of gold; from so many hours working over Peter, the doctor remembered the boy’s tail had blue speckles instead; the thought also occurred that the seal-like tails, while smooth skin at both life stages, had much less chubby flippers as the mer-folk aged.  Chubby flippers were currently knocking dully against the counter as Peter strained to heft himself up and see him and his father, and the fear of the boy popping his stitches from the effort prompted Stephen to cross over and pick him up.  

While Tony had been nervous about Stephen holding Peter when they’d first met, seeing the doctor cradling his boy now gave him an odd feeling of calm; while Stephen was carrying the groggy pup over to him, the doctor was inspecting the long series of stitches that ran along the gashes in Peter’s tail and lightly pinching the chubby flippers on the end of the mer-pup’s tail, and Tony had to grin at the sleepy giggles rolling out of his baby.  

He caught the doctor’s eyes as Stephen passed Peter over to him.  “So what happened?”  Stephen could recognize all too well the guilt in Tony’s eyes when he looked at the black stitches marring Peter’s red tail.

“Migration down to the tropics interrupted by a speedboat; Peter wasn’t strong enough to swim out of the propeller’s pull, and I was ten feet off looking out for predators when I realized the boat wasn’t worried about running aground on the sand bar we were next to.”  Tony paused to sniff and pet Peter’s hair, the boy already curled up on a bundle of the towels Stephen laid in the small pool and fast asleep from what drugs remained in his system.  He noticed scars on the doctor’s hands as Stephen gingerly adjusted Peter so the boy didn’t put strain on his stitches; Tony resolved to ask about their origin at a later date.

“How long will his tail take to heal?” Tony inquired, watching as Stephen ran a thumb over one of Peter’s flippers; the doctor’s blue eyes were soft when looking down at the boy despite the small frown on Stephen’s features.  

“I’ll probably be able to take the stitches out in two weeks if all goes well.”  

Tony traced the blue speckles breaking the red of Peter’s tail, restraining a grimace.  “No sooner?  The water here will be too cold to travel south by then.”  

Stephen shook his head, and worry flooded into the chocolate brown eyes staring back at him.  “Two weeks is a conservative estimate, the gashes are too deep to hope for an earlier recovery.”  The plea that those brown eyes implored was clear without Tony having to open his mouth; waiting until the water turned cold would ensure they never made it to the tropics.  Neither of them expected the proposition that came next.

“You could always wait out the winter waters here.”

Stephen could finally see a connection to the fish-like legends when Tony’s mouth opened and closed like a landed catch, clearly shocked at such a spontaneous offer.  

“That’ll be months,” he sputtered.  “You can’t be serious?!”

“Perfectly; I’d rather you stay here for a few months than worry over Peter bleeding out or drowning before you’d travelled five miles south.”  Stephen stood and made his way toward the kitchen, finally feeling the effects of working through mealtimes and into the night.  “You think it over, and in the meantime you can tell me what you’re normal diet is like.”  As if the universe loved playing jokes on him, the first thing Stephen pulled out of the pantry was a can of tuna; restraining a laugh, he had a very strong feeling he was about to have a very interesting—a very strange—winter.

(Stay tuned for part 2 coming out soon!  Feel free to leave feedback!)

@unlikelyhetaliadreamer @aavastarr @olivia-ivy @ironrosewriter @orkedad

[thecoroutfitters]

Written by R. Ann Parris on The Prepper Journal.

Dead of winter or height of summer, there are some relatively quick, easy, and commonly inexpensive projects we can tackle right in our own backyards to improve our self-reliance and test our preps.

Train Prepper Pards

For many of us, our animals are beloved family members. Animals can also be incredible helpmates, even basic livestock like poultry and rabbits. Having those animals trained to respond and accept handling increases their usefulness as well as our ability to get them out of dangerous situations.

Both dogs and goats can be trained to wear packs and pull in harness.

That can decrease our loads not only in evacuations and hiking with them, but also increase their usefulness as we collect or distribute water, haul groceries to the kitchen, and maneuver about our daily lives.

They have to build up to their tasks, just like we do, both mentally and physically, so work in short periods and increase time and reps/weight regardless of task.

Animals also have to become accustomed to their gear. Many need some adjustment periods even for simple booties that protect them from roadside and forest or trail debris and surfaces.

Having well-behaved animals is always a plus. For preppers, especially, having animals that leash and load well, can be handled if they’re injured or sick, and that respond off-lead regardless of situation, and respond to voice, whistle pips, and silent hand signals is even more beneficial. Even the smallest backyard – or apartment interior – serves as a training ground for those abilities.

Since so many preppers recommend either headstrong or high-activity working dogs that need jobs to be contented companions, the concept “a tired puppy is a good puppy” also applies in the need for regularly working and training with our animals.

Rain Catchment

When it comes to preparedness, it really just does not get much easier or cheaper than some freebie buckets or curbside-pickup totes and trash cans, drilling 2-8 holes, and covering with old shirts or sheets, with $2-$5 in plumbing hardware optional.

Tagging onto gutters and roof lines is one of the most common – and efficient – methods of water catchment, but it’s far from the only way. We don’t have to stick with big kegs or drums for our catchment, either.

I actually prefer building tiers and pyramids of buckets because the smaller containers are easier to access for cleaning and lighter to move around.

Other options – especially for evacuating – include rolling trash cans we can fill with gear or livestock supplies, unpack, and use either for rainwater or fill larger amounts from water sources and be able to move (a bit) easier due to the wheels.

We can also create freestanding catchment out on our properties or as part of our bugout or camping plans, using tarps, damaged umbrellas, and kiddie pools to widen the catchment when able.

With an open mind for sizes and the ability to sheath them for looks, they’re applicable to vehicle bug-outs and even many condo/apartment flat dwellers.

Sub-Irrigated Planters

Done correctly, this is one of the few items even easier and cheaper than water catchment, and just as capable of greatly forwarding our productivity and efficiency.

The premise is that we stack or fill things to create a reservoir beneath a planter, with a tube running through that planter to the reservoir and a wick up to our soil.

We’re able to fill the reservoir quickly, and because the water stays “underground” for plants to access through soil wicks, there’s little or no surface area for evaporation. It also keeps water available for sensitive plants like tomatoes and lettuce, and gives squash the deep watering they prefer.

We can use those same trash cans, totes, and buckets we sourced for free. We can also use filing cabinets and deep plastic or plastic-lined drawers.

The reservoir space can be created or held/supported by milk jugs, peanut butter jars, or chunks of logs. Instead of the usual PVC/ABS pipe for filling that reservoir, we can use empty plastic bottles. With short containers, it may take only a single bottle to reach the surface. Otherwise, we can cut a hole and nest 2-4 together.

For really tight spaces yet, we can get many of the same benefits with planters made from 2 liter bottles.

We’re more limited in what we can grow, but they’re also fast and simple enough for anyone, can be constructed with a nail and scissors, and are plenty big enough for lettuces, spinach, herbs, and – if we feed them with coffee grounds or re-brew tea bags to use for watering – even strawberries and small oriental cabbages.

Garden Irrigation

Bottles are also handy in watering conventional gardens. They can have holes drilled or poked to deliver water to plants roots similar to olla irrigation. PVC gets used to much the same effect, and we can use yogurt cups and plant pots for essentially the same, although the volume is reduced.

As with SIP’s, it lessens “soaking” time and reduces surface water, so more of the water we’re pumping or hauling gets used by plants instead of running off or evaporating.

PVC/ABS can also be joined into a drip-irrigation grid that lets us water quickly and efficiently.

Our speed with watering can be increased further still with buckets or large jugs and some lines.

A little elevation is all that’s needed for gravity-driven drip irrigation in small plots. For longer rows and beds we can create T-posts or use hooked hangers for bird feeders to quickly hang reservoirs higher so they reach further.

We can leave them in place to fill from hoses, pails, or mobile water tanks, or create quick attach/detach points that let us just swap buckets between our catchment or fill area and the garden.

Collect & Organize Firewood

Even without a wood stove or fireplace, a lot of backup and alternative methods for cooking and heating rely on good ol’ trees for fuel. For some, like rocket stoves, a grill, or a small fire pit, it doesn’t require much room to keep a supply handy.

Keeping that supply neat and organized with a couple of CMU blocks, a stock tank or kiddie pool, or some freebie curbside-pickup bookcases can keep it from being an eyesore or rambling pile in a small yard. The same are handy for keeping kindling and stove wood handy by a door or work area. The same can be used to keep today’s wood out of weather even for those of us who use firewood regularly.

Solar Heat

We can use trash like soda and soup cans, scrap wood and split logs from downed limbs and trees, and salvaged freebie windows to capture solar heat for all sorts of projects – several types of dehydrators, solar ovens, window and greenhouse and tent heaters, or, combined with coils of hose and buckets/barrels, even hot water for cooking, bathing, or showers.

Pallet Sheds

Especially if we’re just getting our feet wet in construction and DIY, or pressed for time, pallets can be a godsend.

Small, simple sheds can be constructed from as few as 5-8 whole pallets and 1-2 extras that we cut apart for joint pieces. Additional pieces let us expand in size, fill in the gaps in boards, and build sturdier-yet structures.

It’s harder to get a hold of pallets in some areas, but many preppers can source them for free via trader websites or by developing contacts at nearby distribution hubs.

Those same pallets can be used for temporary or near-permanent fencing – and remember, both fences and buildings for expanding our space can be painted if that eyesore thing is a problem.

Predator Protection

Yeah, we’re protecting the predators. Mostly the bug-eating predators in this case, although I’m also a big personal fan of weasels, garter and king snakes, and small hawks and owls – big enough to get mice, shrews and rats, but not to menace adult poultry.

It’s easy enough to make and build space for the critters that eat mosquitoes and garden pests.

Bat houses, toad castles, dragonfly waterers, bug hotels, and birdhouses – especially those targeted at primary hunters like wrens and swallows – can be cobbled together from rough wood, scrap material, broken jars and pots, sticks and weeds, bottles and cans, old gourds and boots, and even homemade mud daub.

We can also leave small patches of yard with native weeds and shrubs or cultivate flowers, herbs, and shrubs that provide habitat and feed for our helpful predators.

Edible Backyards

People are sometimes surprised by just how much food can be had from the weeds in gardens and yards, the ornamental varieties we grow, and our nearby ditches and wild areas.

I’m a huge Samuel Thayer enthusiast (good for a read as well as information resource), but for beginners and ‘burbs, I’m also a fan of Ellen Zachos’ smaller “Backyard Foraging” guide.

It’s unlikely we’ll truly feed ourselves off foraged foods, but they can make great supplements to basic carb-protein diets, with a resilience to weather and climate our domestic crops just can’t claim. Cultivating them can also boost our ability to hide food production in plain sight.

Convert Hoards to Stockpiles & Work Space

I hesitate to even mention it, but …

One of the most effective things we might do is actually clear out our sheds, garages, and yards. If we can’t get to stuff – easily and readily and immediately – it’s not doing us any good, anyway.

Sorting through, organizing, discarding things that are mouse-eaten and rotting, and clearing out space to work can let us accomplish more going forward.

Setting aside 15-60 minutes specifically for cleaning out 1-2 times a week can help it from being overwhelming, both the loss aversion/shock of loss, and the seemingly impossible task some people’s piles have evolved into.

I know. Extreme. We won’t talk about that anymore.

Backyard Prepper Projects

There’s lots of other options for quick and easy projects that can have big impacts on our self-reliance and preparedness, without either breaking the bank or going anywhere, regardless of our property size.

Big or small, pick a project and get started on DIY today.

All the better if you can up-cycle to accomplish it – tapping into creativity and the ability to use whatever’s on hand is actually a really good life skill, period, but it’s especially handy if we expect supply lines to dry up at some point.

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The post Practical Preps: Backyard Projects Big and Small appeared first on The Prepper Journal.

from The Prepper Journal Don't forget to visit the store and pick up some gear at The COR Outfitters. How prepared are you for emergencies? #SurvivalFirestarter #SurvivalBugOutBackpack #PrepperSurvivalPack #SHTFGear #SHTFBag

[news-mashable-yahoopartner-blog]

Neal Shusterman's 'Dry' is a harrowing look at a world without water

Neal Shusterman is back!

Just months after the release of his new novel Thunderhead in his Arc of the Scythe series, National Book Award-winning author Shusterman has a new novel, Dry, that explores what would happen if the United States ran out of water.

The dystopian climate tale, co-written with his son Jarrod Shusterman, follows Alyssa, a teenage girl living in California during an extreme drought, which everyone calls "the flow crisis," and then "the Tap-Out."

"That’s what the media's been calling the drought, ever since people got tired of hearing the word 'drought,'" Alyssa explains in the novel. "Kind of like the way 'global warming' became 'climate change,' and 'war' became 'conflict.' But now they've got a new catchphrase. A new stage in our water woes. They’re calling this the 'Tap-Out.'"

SEE ALSO: Neal Shusterman redefines dystopian fiction with his 'Arc of the Scythe' series

But when Arizona and Nevada pull out of a vital reservoir relief deal that brings some of the country's scarce water supply to Southern California, Alyssa and her community are left dry.

"Suddenly, Alyssa’s quiet suburban street spirals into a warzone of desperation; neighbors and families turned against each other on the hunt for water. And when her parents don’t return and her life—and the life of her brother—is threatened, Alyssa has to make impossible choices if she’s going to survive," the book outlines.

Of course, it's hard not to see parallels between the plight of Dry and the environmental disasters in our current news cycle. In 2017, Southern California faced historic wildfires that decimated 1.2M acres of land. The rapid spread of those wildfires aided by years of drought. And Flint, Michigan, still doesn't have clean water, almost four years after it was revealed that the city's water was heavily contaminated with lead in 2014.

Dry doesn't come out until Oct. 2, 2018, but if you can't wait for the story, don't worry — MashReads has a exclusive sneak peek at the novel. Check out the book's cover and an excerpt from the novel below.

Dry Chapter 1

Image: Simon & Schuster

Day One

Saturday, June 4th

1) Alyssa

The kitchen faucet makes the most bizarre sounds.

It coughs and wheezes like it’s gone asthmatic. It gurgles like someone drowning. It spits once, and then goes silent. Our dog, Kingston, raises his ears, but still keeps his distance from the sink, unsure if it might unexpectedly come back to life, but no such luck.

Mom just stands there holding Kingston’s water bowl beneath the faucet, puzzling. Then she moves the handle to the off position, and says, “Alyssa, go get your father.”

Ever since single-handedly remodeling our kitchen, Dad has had delusions of plumbing grandeur. Electrical, too. “Why pay through the nose for contractors when you can do it yourself?” he always said. Then he put his money where his mouth was. Ever since, we’ve had nothing but plumbing and electrical problems.

Dad’s in our garage working on his car with Uncle Basil—who’s been living with us on and off since his almond farm up in Modesto failed. Uncle Basil’s actual name is Herb, but somewhere along the line my brother and I began referring to him as various herbs in our garden. Uncle Dill, Uncle Thyme, Uncle Chive, and during a period our parents wish we would forget, Uncle Cannabis. In the end, Basil was the name that stuck.

“Dad,” I shout out into the garage, “kitchen issues.”

My father’s feet stick out from underneath his Camry like the Wicked Witch. Uncle Basil is hidden behind a storm cell of e-cig vapor.

“Can’t it wait?” my father says from beneath the car.

But I’m already sensing that it can’t. “I think it’s major,” I tell him.

He slides out, and with a heavy sigh heads for the kitchen.

Mom’s not there anymore. Instead she’s standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. She’s just standing there, the dog’s empty water bowl still in her left hand. I get a chill, but I don’t yet know why.

“What’s so important that you gotta drag me out of—”

“—Shush!�� Mom says. She rarely shushes Dad. She’ll shush me and Garrett all day, but my parents never shush each other. It’s an unspoken rule. 

She’s watching the TV, where a news anchor is blathering about the “flow crisis.” That’s what the media’s been calling the drought, ever since people got tired of hearing the word “drought.” Kind of like the way “global warming” became “climate change,” and “war” became “conflict.” But now they’ve got a new catchphrase. A new stage in our water woes. They’re calling this the “Tap-Out.” 

Uncle Basil emerges from his vapor cloud long enough to ask, “What’s going on?”

“Arizona and Nevada just backed out of the reservoir relief deal,” Mom tells him. “They’ve shut the floodgates on all the dams, saying they need the water themselves.”

Which means that the Colorado River won’t even reach California anymore.

Uncle Basil tries to wrap his mind around it. “Turning off the entire river like it’s a spigot! Can they do that?”

My father raises an eyebrow. “They just did.”

Suddenly the image switches to a live press conference, where the governor addresses a gathering of antsy reporters.

“This is unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected,” the governor says. “We have people working around the clock attempting to broker a new deal with various agencies.”

“What does that even mean?” Uncle Basil says. Both Mom and I shush him.

“As a precautionary measure, all county and municipal water districts in Southern California are temporarily rerouting all resources to critical services. But I cannot stress enough the need to keep calm. I’d like to personally assure everyone that this is a temporary situation, and that there is nothing to be concerned about.”

The media begins to bombard him with questions, but he ducks out without answering a single one.

“Looks like Kingston’s water bowl isn’t the only one that’s run dry,” Uncle Basil says. “I guess we’re gonna have to start drinking out of the toilet, too.”

My younger brother, Garrett, who’s been sitting on the couch waiting for normal TV to return, makes the appropriate face, which just makes Uncle Basil laugh.

“So,” Dad says to Mom, halfheartedly, “at least the plumbing problem isn’t my fault this time.”

I go to the kitchen to try the tap myself—as if I might have the magic touch. Nothing. Not even the slightest dribble. Our faucet has coded, and no amount of resuscitation will bring it back. I note the time, like they do in the emergency room: 1:32 p.m., June 4th.

Everyone’s going to remember where they were when the taps went dry, I think. Like when a president is assassinated.

In the kitchen behind me, Garrett opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of Glacier Freeze Gatorade. He begins to guzzle it, but I stop him on the third gulp.

“Put it back,” I tell him. “Save some for later.”

“But I’m thirsty now,” he whines, protesting. He’s ten—six years younger than me. Ten-year-olds have issues with delayed gratification.

It’s almost finished anyway, so I let him keep it. I take note of what’s in the fridge. A couple of beers. Three more eight-ounce bottles of Gatorade, a gallon of milk that’s down to the dregs, and leftovers.

You know how sometimes you don’t realize how thirsty you are until you take that first sip? Well, suddenly I get that feeling just by looking in the refrigerator.

It’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a premonition. 

I can hear neighbors out in the street now. We know our neighbors—run into them occasionally. The only time whole bunches of them come out into the street at the same time is July Fourth, or when there’s an earthquake.

My parents, Garrett, and I gravitate outside as well, all of us standing, strangely, looking to one another for some kind of guidance, or at least validation that this is actually happening. Jeannette and Stu Leeson from across the street, the Maleckis and their newborn, and Mr. Burnside, who’s been eternally seventy years old for as long as I can remember. And as expected, we don’t see the reclusive family next door—the McCrackens—who have probably barricaded themselves inside their suburban fortress upon hearing the news.

We all kind of stand there with our hands in our pockets, avoiding direct eye contact, like my classmates at the junior prom. 

“Okay,” my dad finally says, “which one of you pissed off Arizona and Nevada?”

Everyone chuckles. Not because it’s particularly funny, but it eases some of the tension. 

Mr. Burnside raises his eyebrows. “Hate to say I told ya so, but didn’t I say they’d hoard what’s left of the Colorado River?” He shakes his head. “We let that river become our only lifeline. We should never have let ourselves become so vulnerable.”

Used to be no one much knew or cared where our water came from. It was just always there. But when the Central Valley started to dry up and the price of produce skyrocketed, people started to pay attention. Or at least enough attention to pass laws and voter propositions. Most of them were useless, but made people feel as if something was being done. Like the Frivolous Use Initiative, that made things like throwing water balloons illegal.

“Las Vegas still has water,” someone points out.

Our neighbor, Stu, shakes his head. “Yeah—but I just tried to book a hotel in Vegas. A million hotel rooms, and not a single one available.”

Mr. Burnside laughs ruefully, as if taking pleasure in Stu’s misfortune. “One hundred twenty-four thousand hotels rooms, actually. Sounds like a whole lot of people had the same idea.”

“Ha! Can you imagine the traffic on the fifteen trying to get there?” says my mom, in a sour grapes kind of way. “I wouldn’t want to be caught in that!”

And then I put my two cents in. “If they’re diverting the remaining water to ‘critical services,’ it means there’s still a little bit left. Someone should sue to get them to release a fraction of it. Make it like rolling blackouts. Each neighborhood gets a little bit of water each day.”

My parents are impressed by the suggestion. The others look at me with an isn’t-she-adorable kind of expression, which ticks me off. My parents are convinced I’m going to be a lawyer someday. It’s possible, but I suspect if I am, it will just be a means to an end—although I’m not sure what that end would be. 

But that doesn’t help us now—and although I think my idea is a good one, I suspect there’s too much self-interest among the Powers That Be for it to ever happen. And who knows, maybe there isn’t enough water left to share.

A phone chimes, receiving a text. Jeannette looks at her Android. “Great! Now my relatives in Ohio found out. Like I need their stress on top of my own.”

“Text her back: ‘send water.’” My father quips.

“We’ll get through this,” my mom says reassuringly. She’s a clinical psychologist, so reassurance is second nature to her.

Garrett, who’s been standing quietly, brings his Gatorade bottle up to his lips . . . and for a brief moment everyone stops talking. Involuntary. Almost like a mental hiccup, as they watch my brother gulp the quenching blue liquid. Finally, Mr. Burnside breaks the silence.

“We’ll talk,” he says as he turns to leave. It’s the way he always ends a conversation. It signals the conclusion of this loose little fellowship. Everyone says their goodbyes and heads back to their homes . . . but more than one set of eyes glance at Garrett’s empty Gatorade bottle as they leave.

“Costco run!” says Uncle Basil late that afternoon, at around five. “Who’s coming?”

“Can I get a hot dog?” Garrett asks, knowing that even if Uncle Basil says no, he’ll get one anyway. Uncle Basil is a pushover.

“Hot dogs are the least of our problems,” I tell him. And he doesn’t question that. He knows why we’re going—he’s not stupid. Even so, he still knows he’ll get a hot dog.

We climb into the cab of Uncle Basil’s four-by-four pickup, which is jacked up higher than should be allowed for any man his age.

“Mom said we have a few water bottles in the garage,” Garrett says.

“We’re going to need more than just a few,” I point out. I try to quickly do the math in my head. I also saw those bottles. Nine half-liters. Five of us. That won’t even last the day.

As we turn the corner out of our neighborhood and onto the main street, Uncle Basil says, “It may take a day or so for the county to get the water up and running again. We’ll probably only need a couple of cases.”

“And Gatorade!” says Garrett. “Don’t forget the Gatorade! It’s full of electrolytes.” Which is what they say on the commercials, even though Garrett doesn’t know what an electrolyte is.

“Look on the bright side,” Uncle Basil says. “You probably won’t have school for a few days.” The California version of a snow day.

I’ve been counting down the days for junior year to end. Just two weeks now. But knowing my high school, they’ll probably find a way to tack any lost days on at the end, delaying our summer vacation.

As we pull into the Costco parking lot we can see the crowd. It seems like our entire neighborhood had the same idea. We do nothing but slowly circle in search of an empty space. Finally Uncle Basil pulls out his Costco card and hands it to me.

“You two go in. I’ll meet you inside when I find a place to park.”

I wonder how he’ll get in without his card, but then, Uncle Basil finds ways around any situation. Garrett and I hop out and join the hordes of people flooding the entrance. Inside it’s like Black Friday at its worst—but today it’s not televisions and video games people are after. The carts in the checkout line are stocked with canned goods, toiletries, but mostly water. The essentials of life.

Something feels slightly off. I’m not sure what it is, but it hangs in the air like a scent. It’s in the impatience of the people in line. The way people use their carts—on the verge of being battering rams to make their way through the crowd. There’s a sort of primal hostility all around us, hidden by a veneer of suburban politeness. But even that politeness is stretching thin.

“This cart sucks,” Garrett says. He’s right. One wheel is bent, and the only way to push it is to lean it on the other three wheels. I look back toward the entrance. There were only a couple of carts left when I grabbed this one. They’ll all be gone now.

“It’ll do,” I tell him.

Garrett and I forge our way through the crowds toward the back left corner, where the water pallets are. As we do, we overhear bits and pieces of conversations.

“FEMA’s already slammed with Hurricane Noah,” one woman tells another. “How are they going to help us, too?”

“It’s not our fault! Agriculture uses eighty percent of the water!”

“If the county spent more time finding new sources of water, instead of fining us for filling our swimming pools,” one woman says, “we wouldn’t be in this position.” 

Garrett turns to me. “My friend Jason has a giant aquarium in his living room, and he didn’t get fined.”

“That’s different,” I explain to him. “Fish are considered pets.”

“But it’s still water.”

“Then go drink it,” I say, shutting him up. I don’t have time to think about other people’s problems. We have our own to worry about. But it looks like I’m the only one who cares, because Garrett has already gone off to hunt for free samples.

As I push the cart, it keeps veering to the left and I have to lean heavily on the right side to prevent the bent wheel from acting like a rudder. 

As I approach the rear of the warehouse, I can see that it’s the most crowded spot, and as I reach the last aisle to see the water pallets, I realize I’m too late. The pallets are already empty.

In hindsight, we should have come straight here the moment the taps were turned off. But when something drastic happens, there’s a lag time. It’s not quite denial, and not quite shock, but more like a mental free fall. You’re spending so much time wrapping your mind around the problem, you don’t realize what you need to do until the window to do it has closed. I think of all those people in Savannah the moment Hurricane Noah made that unexpected turn and barreled straight toward them, instead of heading back out to sea like it was supposed to. How long did they stare unblinking at the news, until they packed up their things and evacuated? I can tell you how long. Three and a half hours.

Behind me, people who can’t see that the water pallets are empty keep pushing forward. Eventually some employee will have the good sense to put a sign out front that says no water, but until they do, customers will keep piling in, pushing toward the back, creating a suffocating crowd, like the mosh pit of a concert.

On a hunch, I maneuver my way to the side aisle, and to the racks of canned soda, which are also beginning to disappear. But I’m not here for soda. As I look around the stacks of drinks, I find a single case of water that someone abandoned there maybe yesterday, when it wasn’t such a precious commodity. I reach for it, only to find it pulled away at the last second by a thin woman with a beak of a nose. She stacks it on top of her cart like a crown on top of her canned goods.

“I’m sorry, but we were here first,” she says. And then her daughter steps forward—a girl I recognize her from soccer—Hali Hartling. She’s annoyingly popular and thinks she’s much better at soccer than she really is. Half the girls in school want to be like her, and the other half hate her because they know they’ll never come close. Me, I just put up with her. She’s not worth the energy for me to be anything but indifferent. 

Although she always seems to bleed confidence, right now she can’t even look me in the eye—because she knows, just as her mother knows, that I had that water first. As her mother pulls their cart away, Hali leans closer to me. “I’m sorry about that, Morrow,” she says, earnestly, calling me by my last name like we do in soccer. Though by the looks of it, right now we’re playing for totally different teams.

“Didn’t I share my water with you at practice last week?” I point out to her. “Maybe you could return the favor and share a few bottles with me.” 

She looks back to her mother, who’s already moving down the aisle, then back to me with a shrug. “Sorry, they don’t sell them by the bottle here. Just by the case.” And then she gets a little bit red in the face, and turns to leave before it becomes a full-fledged flush.

I take in my surroundings. Crowds are still getting thicker, and things are vanishing from the shelves at an alarming rate. Even the sodas are gone now. Stupid! I should have grabbed some. I hurry back to my empty cart before someone else can take it. There’s no sign of Uncle Basil yet, and Garrett is probably off stuffing his face with something greasy. The Gatorade he requested is all gone, too.

Finally I spot Garrett. He’s down one of the frozen aisles, pizza sauce all over his face. He wipes his mouth with his shirt, knowing I’ll comment. But I don’t bother—because I see something. Just past the frozen vegetables and ice cream, there’s a chest packed with ice. Enormous bags of it. I can’t believe people are such limited thinkers that they haven’t thought of this themselves! Or maybe they have, but denied that they could possibly be so desperate. I open the door and grab a bag of ice, and then another.

“What are you doing? We need water, not ice.”

“Ice is water, Einstein,” I tell him. I go for a bag, and realize they’re a lot heavier than I had anticipated.

“Help me!” Together Garrett and I heave one bag of ice after another into our cart, until it’s piled as high as it can get. By now other people have taken notice, and have crowded the ice case, beginning to empty it.

The cart is ridiculously heavy now, and almost impossible to push—especially with a bad wheel. Then, as we struggle with the cart, the jammed wheel scraping across the concrete floor, a man in a business suit comes up behind us. He smiles.

“That’s quite a load there,” he says. “Looks like you could use some help.”

He doesn’t wait for us to answer before grabbing the cart’s handle, and wrestling it forward far more effectively than we did.

“Crazy here today,” he says, jovially. “Crazy everywhere, I’ll bet.”

“Thank you for helping us,” I tell him. 

“Not a problem. We all need to help one another.”

He smiles again, and I return the grin. It’s good to know that difficult times can bring out the best in people.

Bit by bit, with short but steady lurches, we get the cart to the front of the store, and in one of the snaking checkout lines.

“I suppose that’s my workout for the day,” he chuckles.

I look at our cart, and decide that one good turn deserves another. “Why don’t you take a bag of ice for yourself,” I suggest.

His smile doesn’t fade. “I have an even better idea,” he says. “Why don’t you take a bag of ice for yourselves, and I’ll keep the rest.”

For a moment I think he’s joking, but then realize he’s dead serious. “Excuse me?”

He manufactures a heavy sigh. “You’re right, that really wouldn’t be fair to you. Tell you what, why don’t we split it down the middle? I’ll take half, you take half.”

He says it like he’s being generous. As if the ice is his to give. He’s still smiling, but his eyes scare me.

“I think my offer is more than fair,” he says. I begin to wonder what business he’s in, and if it’s all about cheating people but making them think they’re not being cheated. It’s not going to fly with me—but his hands are firmly locked on the handle of our cart, and there’s nothing to prove that it’s ours and not his.

“Is there a problem here?”

It’s Uncle Basil. He’s arrived just in time. He glares at the man coldly for a moment, then the man takes his hands off the cart.

“Not at all,” he says. 

“Good.” Uncle Basil says. “I’d hate to think you were harassing my niece and nephew. People get arrested for that.”

The man holds eye contact with our uncle for a moment more before folding. He looks at the ice, his expression bitter, then leaves, not taking as much as a single bag. 

Uncle Basil’s pickup truck is parked illegally—halfway onto an island, having demolished a row of ficus. “Had to kick this sucker into four-wheel drive,” he says proudly—probably the first time he’s ever actually had to use it. Suddenly Uncle Basil’s midlife crisis truck is a blessing rather than an embarrassment.

We load the bags of ice into the truck bed. “How about that hot dog?” Uncle Basil offers, trying to lighten the mood.

“I’m full,” Garrett responds, even though I know that’s a nearly impossible feat for him. He just doesn’t want to go back inside. None of us do. And now there’s a small crowd that’s formed, watching us load the ice into the bed of the truck. Even though I try to ignore it, I know there’s a dozen eyes on us.

“Why don’t I ride in the back of the truck bed with the ice?” I suggest.

“No, it’s okay,” Uncle Basil replies calmly. “Ride in the cab. Some nasty potholes on the way back. Wouldn’t want you to bounce around back there.”

“Right,” I agree as I hop into the cab of the pickup. And although no one speaks of it, I know it’s not potholes my uncle’s worried about.

We pull onto our street, but for some reason it doesn’t quite feel like the same block I grew up on. There’s this strangeness, like when you accidentally turn one street too early, and, because all of the cookie-cutter houses look the same, you feel as if you’re in a parallel universe. I try to shake the feeling as I watch the houses go by through the car window.

Our neighbors across the street, the Kiblers, usually lounge in their lawn chairs and “supervise” their kids as they play, which in reality means gossiping over glasses of chardonnay while making sure their children don’t get run over. However, today the Kibler kids play tag in the street without supervision. And even through the children’s laughter there’s this overwhelming silence that undertones everything; then again, maybe the silence was always there, and I’m only just noticing it now.

Uncle Basil backs the truck into the driveway and we get straight to unloading. Even with the sun getting low in the sky, it’s still ninety degrees, and the ice is already melting. If we’re going to get all of this ice inside in time, we’re going to need to hurry.

“Why don’t you go clean out the freezer so we can put some ice in it,” Uncle Basil says as he grabs the first bag from the truck bed. “The rest we can let melt and drink today.”

“Better yet, why don’t you clean the downstairs bathtub,” I tell Garret. “We’ll let it melt there.”

“Good idea,” says Basil, although Garrett’s not too keen on cleaning the tub.

Dad emerges from the garage, greasy wrench in hand, clearly still trying to squeeze water from the pipes. “No Gatorade?”

“They ran out,” I tell him, keeping it brief.

Dad scratches his head. “Should have gone to Sam’s Club,” he says. “They keep more items stocked in the back of the store.” Although Dad smiles it off, I can tell he’s a little more disturbed than he lets on. I think he knows that Sam’s Club has most likely been cleaned out of all of its bottled liquids, just like every other store.

Uncle Basil quickly changes the subject. “Thought you were going into the office today,” he says.

Dad shrugs and grabs a bag of ice. “Best thing about having your own business is that you don’t have to work Saturdays if you don’t want to.”

Except that Dad does work Saturdays. Some Sundays, too. A lot of people put in extra hours these days, considering how the price of produce has been rising—but even without that, Dad always told us that it takes a 24/7 commitment to build out a business. Yet apparently he’d rather haul ice than sell insurance today.

I pull more ice from the back of the truck, but find, even in a thick plastic bag, it’s hard to grip now that it’s starting to melt. 

“Need some help?” says a voice from behind, and before turning around I know exactly who it is. Kelton McCracken. Your not-so-typical red-headed geek next door. Most kids of his strangeness are content killing zombies with an Xbox controller, but not Kelton. He prefers to spend his time practicing aerial reconnaissance with his drone, shooting critters with his paintball gun, and hiding in his tree house with a pair of night vision goggles, pretending to be Jason Bourne. It’s like he never matured past sixth grade, so his parents just bought him bigger and bigger toys. But today I can’t help but notice that there’s something different about him. Sure, he’s grown in this past year and looks a lot more mature—but it isn’t just that. It’s the way he holds himself. There’s a bounce in his step, as if this whole water crisis excites him in some sick way. Kelton smiles, revealing that his braces are off and his teeth have been wrangled artificially straight.

“Sure Kelton, we could use some help,” says Dad. “Why don’t you give Alyssa a hand?”

I go to hand him the ice, but as I hold it out to him, something comes over me, and I can’t seem to let go of the bag.

Dad takes notice, confused by my hesitation. “Let him take the ice, Alyssa,” he says.

I look down to the ice in my hands and then back to Kelton, realizing I’m still skeptical about allowing people to “help.” 

“Is there a problem?” Dad asks, in an intrusive, fatherly tone that demands an answer—which I don’t give.

I force myself to hand the ice over to Kelton. “Just don’t expect a bag for helping,” I tell him, which makes my father give me a stern look, probably wondering what would possess me to be so nasty about it. Maybe later I’ll tell him about that guy at Costco. Or maybe I’ll just try to forget it ever happened.

As for Kelton, I expect him to have a snotty comeback, but instead he just stands there, genuinely thrown by my comment. I regain my composure and force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look forced. “Sorry,” I tell him. “Thanks for helping.”

We go inside to set the ice in the bathtub, but Kelton grabs my shoulder to stop me. 

“Have you sealed the drain?” he asks. “Not a good idea putting this ice in the tub unless you’ve sealed the drain. Even the tiniest leak and you’ll lose it all in a few hours.”

“I thought my uncle had done that,” I tell him, even though none of us would have thought of it. As much as I hate to admit it, that’s probably the smartest idea I’ve heard all day.

“I’ll go get you some caulking,” he says, and hurries off to retrieve the sealant from his garage, obviously happy for an opportunity to put his Boy Scout training into action. 

Kelton and his reclusive family always seem to have a worst-case scenario plan for anything. Dad would sometimes joke that Mr. McCracken lived a double life, working as a dentist by day and preparing for the end of the world by night. But recently the joke is becoming all the more real. It seems Mr. McCracken now spends most of his time welding cast-iron contraptions late into the night, as if he were drilling into the cavity of the gaping monstrosity that is his garage.

Over the past few months Kelton’s family has assembled an over-the-top surveillance system, set up a mini greenhouse in their side yard, and lined their entire roof with some kind of unregistered, off-grid solar panels. Most recently, Kelton—who’s in far too many of my classes this year—is always bragging about how his father installed one-way bulletproof windows—bullets can shoot out from inside, but can’t penetrate from the outside. Even though the rest of our class thinks he’s completely full of it, I think it might be true. I wouldn’t put it past his father to do something like that.

Aside from our complaints about the late-night welding, our families are generally amicable, but there’s always been a sense of polite tension when my parents deal with them. We once shared an area of grass between our two houses, until Mr. McCracken installed a picket fence right through my mom’s prize-winning vermilliades. The fence was obnoxiously taller than your typical whitewashed suburban barrier, but just low enough not to technically violate the rules and regulations of the Homeowners Association—which they always seem to be at war with. Once, they even tried to lay claim to the curb in front of their house as their own private parking spot, claiming that their property line extended a few inches into the street—but the association won that battle. Ever since then, Uncle Basil makes a point to park his truck right in front of their house whenever he can, just to mess with them. 

Kelton returns in a few minutes with the caulking and gets right to sealing the drain. “This might take a couple of hours to harden, so be careful when you pack the ice in,” he says, way more enthusiastic than someone ought to be about silicone sealant. There’s an uncomfortable silence between us that makes me realize that I’ve never actually spent time with Kelton one-on-one. 

Then something occurs to me that’s not just a conversation filler, but something important. “Wait a second. Don’t you guys have a big water tank behind your house?”

“Thirty-five gallons,” Kelton brags, as he applies the caulking with the precision of a jeweler. “But that’s inside our house. The outside one’s for bodily waste, full of quaternary ammonium compound chemicals. You know, like that stinky blue soup at the bottom of a porta potty.”

“Yeah, I get it, Kelton,” I say, duly disgusted—but more so by the fact that I haven’t begun to think about our toilets yet. “Well, I can’t say you guys didn’t think ahead,” I say, knowing that’s the understatement of the century.

“Well, as my dad always says, ‘We’d rather be wrong than dead wrong.’” Then he adds, “I bet if your dad just thought ahead too, you’d probably be better off.”

Kelton’s clearly not aware how insulting he can sound sometimes. I wonder if he ever won a merit badge for being Most Annoying.

Kelton finishes up the job. I thank him, and he heads back home to shoot his potato launcher, or dissect bugs, or whatever a kid like him does with his free time.

In the kitchen, my mom is scouring every surface with 409. Stress cleaning. When something’s out of your control, you bring order to the things you can. I get that. She’s never been the type, though, to leave the TV on as background noise—but she has it blasting in the family room. I’m not sure where my dad and uncle are. Maybe back working on his car. I find it odd that I feel I need to know.

On TV, CNN is focused on the continuing crisis of Hurricane Noah. I don’t begrudge those poor people the attention, but wish some of it would turn toward us, too.

“Any news about the Tap-Out?” I ask.

“One of the local stations has regular updates,” Mom tells me, “but it’s that brainless anchor I can’t stand. And besides, there’s nothing new.”

Even so, I switch to the brainless anchor, who my dad says got his start in porn, although I don’t want to ask him how he knows.

My mom’s right; they’re just showing the governor’s statement from this morning, and trying without success to spin it.

I switch back to the national news stations. CNN, then MSNBC, then Fox News, and back to CNN again. Every national broadcast is reporting on Noah, and only on Noah. Slowly it dawns on me why.

There’s no radar image for a water crisis.

No storm surges, no debris fields—the Tap-Out is as silent as cancer. There’s nothing to see, and so the news is treating it like a sidebar.

I mention this to my mom. She stops cleaning for a moment, and watches the scrawl of secondary stories at the bottom of the screen. Finally something comes up: California water crisis deepens. Residents urged to conserve.

And that’s it. That’s all the national news says.

“Conserve? Are you kidding me?” 

My mom takes a deep breath and sprays the kitchen table again. “As long as FEMA does its job, who care’s what the news says?”

“I care,” I tell her. Because if there’s one thing I know about the news, it’s that it decides for most people—including the federal government—what is and what isn’t important. But the big news stations won’t give the Tap-Out the critical airtime it needs—not until there are images that are as dramatic as winds taking off roofs.

And if it takes that long for the Tap-Out to be taken seriously, it will be too late.

Dry is out Oct. 2, 2018 by Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing.