Free The Elephant Mountains by Scott Ely Page B

outside. He liked it that they had found a way to live amid all this chaos in such a beautiful space. But he knew just one random passing of a boat with the wrong people in it, and all of this would disappear.
    He went out onto the deck and found them having wine. They offered him some, but he said no. He had had his first glass of wine last Thanksgiving in New Orleans. It was something he did not care for. Then Holly produced a bottle of Coke and ice. They had ice. It had been a long time since he had had a Coke with ice.
    As he sat there drinking the Coke slowly and watching the older people drink their wine, he realized that he was quickly slipping back into his status as a boy. He put his bare foot on the Saiga resting at his feet. And he knew that he was never going to be that boy again, not since the night his father was killed.
    At dinner that night he did drink some wine. They had dinner with candles. First it was turtle soup and then wild boar Fred had shot.
    â€œBetter than anything you could buy at the store,” Fred said.
    They all agreed it was.
    The table was covered with a white tablecloth. They had cloth napkins. There were several forks and knives for him to choose from. He was glad his mother had taught him what to do. No one mentioned the flooded countryside around them where dead bodies floated. Instead Fred told funny stories about catching big catfish. Stephen did not know if he believed the story about the catfish that towed the johnboat down the creek and wrecked it on a cypress knee. But it was funny, and he laughed along with the others.
    That night he was awakened by the sound of music. It was Bach. His mother played it on the piano. He supposed for a moment it was a recording, but then it started and stopped again. He slipped out of his room and followed the music. Holly, dressed in her white bathrobe, was sitting in a dining-room chair, her back to him, playing a cello. He listened for a long time before he went back to sleep. As he lay in bed, he knew he wanted to leave soon. There was no future for them here.

    The weather was hot but calm, the sky blue and filled with harmless-looking white clouds. They learned from the radio no hurricanes were wandering about in the Gulf. New Orleans had been totally evacuated, and people had been forbidden to return. Baton Rouge was filled with refugees. For the first time he recalled his mother had friends in Baton Rouge.
    He and Fred listened to the radio one night after Angela and Holly had gone to sleep. Without telling Fred, he tried to dial in the mystery station. But for his efforts he was rewarded only with static.
    â€œNothing much up at that end of the dial,” Fred said.
    So he tried the Texas station, but that failed to come in too.
    â€œWhose idea was it to live on this barge?” he asked.
    â€œHolly’s,” Fred said. “We were thinking about building a cabin on a patch of high ground further down the creek. Then she heard about the barge for sale.”
    Stephen wondered if he could persuade Angela to live with him in his father’s house. It could be that the water would go down and the march of the hurricanes cease and the sea rise no further. He could work on motors, just like his father, in the shop. He wondered if Angela would want to go back to the little town if the water went down. He doubted if she could ever stay in the house where her parents were murdered. She might be willing to come live in his father’s house. But with a boy like him?
    They tried the radio a few more times but then gave up and went to bed. But he found himself unable to sleep. He sat on the edge of his bed in the darkness and searched for stations on the radio. The result was the same: nothing but static. He wondered, if he climbed to the top of one of the big poplars on the creek bank, would that be enough to draw in the mystery station or any station at all? Finally he gave up and went to sleep.
    Every day he made sure to keep