Free Noah's Wife by Lindsay Starck

fur.
    â€œI asked several people outside where I could find the mayor,” he says, deftly brushing the water from his sleeves. “And they sent me here.”
    Mrs. McGinn lowers the umbrella and immediately extends her hand. “Well,” she says, flattered by the title. “We don’t have a mayor, but I’m head of the town council. You came to the right place.”
    â€œA woman?” says the stranger. His chuckle sounds from deep in his throat. “In charge of the whole town? Well, there’s something you don’t see every day.”
    â€œTimes are changing,” retorts Mrs. McGinn. After they shake, she makes an attempt to soften her tone. “Please let me know if there is anything I can do to make your stay here as comfortable as possible.”
    The man looks appalled at the suggestion. “Oh no,” he says. “I have no intention of staying. I’m only here to talk to you about the situation.”
    â€œThe situation?” Mrs. McGinn’s smile, though still fixed tightly to her face, decreases in sincerity. “What situation?”
    â€œLet’s go inside,” the man suggests, “and discuss it.”
    Mrs. McGinn is not happy, but she moves to unlock the door to the diner and glances at the clock as she enters. Noah’s wife will be arriving any minute for the meeting Mrs. McGinn had requested to discuss the photography for her daughter’s wedding. Mrs. McGinn had been pleased at the prospect of this appointment because it would allow her the opportunity tobring out all four of her old wedding albums—ostensibly to share her vision for her daughter’s nuptials but more truthfully to show off the pictures to someone who has not yet had the good fortune to admire them. She carries them in a waterproof tote bag, the albums wrapped in plastic for extra protection. Once inside she drops them on the nearest table, listening to the thud with a pang of satisfaction. It is clear that she has been through enough weddings herself to be something of an expert on the matter.
    The door opens again behind them, the bell chiming, and the minister’s wife steps across the threshold. She pushes her hood away from her high, broad forehead and runs her fingers through her hair. Mrs. McGinn greets her and then turns once more to the stranger.
    â€œThe diner opens in half an hour,” she tells him. “I’ll give you ten minutes.”
    The man moves swiftly to pull out a chair for Noah’s wife, who thanks him and sits. Mrs. McGinn pulls back her own chair and pushes the albums across the table. She opens one for Noah’s wife to peruse during this unexpected interruption. Noah’s wife obediently turns a few pages, but she pauses as soon as the man starts speaking. For the remainder of the meeting she sits as motionless as she might in a pew, her lips slightly parted, leaning forward in attention.
    â€œI’m with the state weather service,” the man says. “We’re aware of the unusual weather patterns in the mountains, andI’ve been sent up to monitor the rain and to notify all the towns in the area that for the time being, there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight.”
    â€œWe’re used to the rain by now,” announces Mrs. McGinn. “If you’re so concerned, why didn’t you come years ago, when this whole thing started?”
    The weatherman folds his hands together. “Because we’ve developed better tools,” he says shortly, “and so we’ve got better information. Our radar reports are now computerized and colorized, so we can see and track severe weather patterns with more precision than before. This area in the hills has been of particular interest over the past few years, and from what we can tell, the rain will only get worse—much worse—before it gets better. I’d advise you to come up with an evacuation plan as soon as