Low Gear, High Stakes

The first rule of surviving a natural disaster, I’ve always thought, is not to be in the middle of nowhere when it hits. Too bad nobody consulted me on that one. The sky over Elk Creek, Montana, hangs low and bruised, swollen with the aftermath of the storm that rolled through last night. It feels like the whole town is holding its breath, waiting for the next deluge. I know I am.

Brenna Hayes is a silhouette against the grey light filtering through the plate glass window of the rental car office. Her shoulders are rigid, her back to me, and I can practically hear the irritation radiating off her. We’re the last two people in the building, the last two attendees of the Northern Rockies Geological Society Conference who haven’t managed to escape Elk Creek after the flash flood turned the roads to rivers and the airport into a lake.

“Well,” I say, because someone has to break the silence, and it’s usually me, even when I’d rather not be. “Looks like we’re in this together.”

Brenna turns, her expression unreadable. Her blonde hair is shorter than I remember, almost severe, but it suits her. She’s always been efficient, even in her appearance. “Together?” she echoes, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

Okay, so she’s still sore about the Lake Superior project. I can’t really blame her. When your lead researcher quits midway through because of “creative differences” – her words, not mine – it tends to leave a mark. Especially when those differences involved me pointing out that her methodology was flawed. Turns out, people don’t love being told they’re wrong, even when they are.

“It’s just a word, Brenna,” I say, keeping my voice mild. I learned a long time ago that meeting her sharpness with my own only leads to sparks, and not the good kind. “Unless you have a better one?”

She doesn’t answer, just turns back to the window. Outside, the rain has slowed to a drizzle, but the evidence of last night’s downpour is everywhere. Puddles the size of small lakes dot the parking lot, and the few cars that were left out are half-submerged, their roofs barely visible above the waterline.

The door to the back office opens, and the rental agent emerges, looking harried. “Okay,” he says, wiping a hand over his face. “Good news and bad news. Bad news is, most of our fleet is either underwater or spoken for by emergency services.”

Brenna makes a small, frustrated noise. “And the good news?”

He gestures out the window. “The good news is, we’ve got one car left. A compact sedan. It’s not much, but it’ll get you where you need to go.”

I follow his pointing finger. The car in question is a small, boxy thing, its once-white paint job faded to a dull grey. It looks like it’s seen better decades, but right now, it’s the most beautiful sight in the world. “We’ll take it,” I say quickly, before Brenna can object. I need to get back to Seattle, and more importantly, I need to get my fossil samples to the university. They’re irreplaceable, and I made a promise to deliver them safely.

Brenna shoots me a look, but doesn’t argue. “Fine,” she says, her tone clipped. “But I’m driving first.”

I’m too relieved to argue. “Okay,” I agree, already moving towards my luggage. My samples are packed carefully in a reinforced case, nestled among my clothes for extra padding. I can feel Brenna’s eyes on me as I lift the case, and I know she’s judging my caution, just like she always did. But these fossils are my responsibility, and I won’t take any chances with them.

We load the car in silence, the air between us thick with unspoken history. The sky is still heavy, the clouds pressing down like a lid on the world. It’s a two-day drive to Seattle, and the thought of spending all that time trapped in a car with Brenna is enough to make my stomach clench. But I don’t have a choice. The fossils need to get there, and so do I.

As I close the trunk, I glance over at Brenna. She’s staring out at the flooded parking lot, her expression unreadable. For a moment, I wonder what she’s thinking, if she’s regretting this as much as I am. Then she turns and catches me looking, and her face smooths out into its usual mask of cool detachment.

“Ready?” she asks, her voice giving nothing away.

I take a deep breath, the damp air filling my lungs. “Ready,” I say, and climb into the passenger seat.

The first few hours on the road are thick with awkward silence and the low hum of the engine. I stare out the window at the waterlogged landscape, watching the mile markers tick by with agonizing slowness. Brenna keeps her eyes firmly on the road, her hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity. The air in the car is stifling, heavy with everything we’re not saying.

It’s not until the light starts to fade that Brenna finally speaks. “We should stop for the night,” she says, her voice rough from disuse. “There’s a motel up ahead. Looks like it might be the only option for a while.”

I glance at the clock on the dashboard. It’s later than I realized. “Okay,” I agree, because what else can I say? We’re in this together, whether we like it or not.

The motel is small and slightly run-down, the kind of place that looks like it’s seen better days but is clean enough. The parking lot is mostly empty, and the neon sign flickers erratically, casting strange shadows on the pavement. Inside, the lobby is dimly lit and smells faintly of mildew and cigarette smoke. The clerk behind the desk looks bored, barely glancing up as we approach.

“Need a room?” he asks, his voice monotone.

“Two rooms,” Brenna says, her tone clipped. “Adjoining, if possible.”

The clerk snorts. “Sorry, lady. We’re full up. Only got one room left.”

Brenna’s expression tightens, but she doesn’t argue. “Fine,” she says, pulling out her wallet. “We’ll take it.”

The room is small and dingy, with two twin beds crammed in beside each other, leaving barely enough space to walk between them. The carpet is worn and stained, and the curtains hanging over the single window are thin and yellowed with age. I can feel Brenna’s frustration radiating off her as she drops her bag on one of the beds, but I’m too tired to care. All I want is to unpack my fossils and make sure they’re safe.

I lift the case carefully out of my suitcase and set it on the small desk beside the TV. The wood is scratched and scarred, but it’s stable enough. I unlock the case and open it, revealing the carefully packed samples inside. Each one is nestled in its own foam compartment, labeled and cataloged with meticulous care. I run my fingers lightly over the edge of the case, feeling the familiar comfort of the cool metal against my skin.

“Still babying those things, huh?” Brenna asks from behind me, her voice tinged with sarcasm. I can hear the unspoken criticism in her words, the same one she always threw at me during our collaboration. She thought I was too cautious, too obsessed with details. She never understood that in our field, the details are what matter most.

“They’re important,” I say quietly, not turning around. “I made a promise to deliver them safely.”

Brenna snorts, but she doesn’t reply. I can feel her watching me as I carefully arrange the samples on the desk, making sure each one is secure. The air between us is stiff with unspoken history, with all the arguments and resentments we’ve never resolved. It’s strange, being this close to her again after all this time. I’d almost forgotten how it felt to have her presence filling up all the space in a room, crowding out everything else.

When I’m satisfied that the fossils are safe, I turn around. Brenna is sitting on the edge of her bed, her elbows resting on her knees, staring at the floor. She looks tired, her usual sharpness softened by exhaustion. For a moment, I feel a pang of something like sympathy. This trip is hard on her too, even if she’d never admit it.

“We should get some sleep,” I say, my voice softer than I intended. “Long drive tomorrow.”

Brenna looks up at me, her expression unreadable. “Yeah,” she agrees, her voice flat. “Long drive.”

We take turns in the cramped bathroom, brushing our teeth and washing our faces in silence. When I emerge, Brenna is already in bed, her back to me, the blankets pulled up over her shoulders. I slide under the thin covers of my own bed, the springs creaking loudly in the quiet room. The mattress is lumpy and uncomfortable, but I’m too exhausted to care.