Pasha Malla - People Park

He’d left Gip with the strange man, Olpert’s housemate, was he a kidnapper? A terrible, dangerous mistake: it reminded him of a riddle from his childhood, how to cross a river with a boat that fit two and not three among a falcon, chickadee, and sack of seed, the goal was to have nothing eaten, he’d been first in his class to solve it, Katie Sharpe had been impressed — where now were those smarts? He’d spent too much time browsing magazines and living indoors and going pale, everything about him had paled.

But here he was at the Ferryport, and Sam and Gip were waiting. The water made suckling noises against the walkway’s underside. The boy waved.

He keeps saying he has to finish his work, Gip said, but I’m the one. Raven chose me.

Great, said Olpert. Listen, Sam, I’ve got the door from your wardrobe, we’ll use it as a raft to get across the Cove. We’ll just hold on and kick. And, Gip, you’ll ride it, okay?

But I’m the one, right? said Gip. Can you tell him?

Sure, said Olpert. Sam, he’s the one.

I just want to finish the work okay, said Sam, and patted the TV remote in his pocket.

Okay, said Olpert, and slid into the water.

Perint’s Cove was the colour of steel. Across it the Islet flotilla reached Lakeview Campground, the lake so high they boated right into the trees.

I can’t really swim, said Gip.

You don’t need to swim, you’re going on this raft.

That’s not a raft. It’s a door.

It used to be a door. Now it’s a raft.

Olpert stood nipple-deep in the flood. He realized his Citypass lanyard had come off at some point and disappeared into all that water. Past him flowed debris, each cluster telling a little story. Here was a ruined party: balloons, streamers, a slice of cake topping a paper plate — and plastic bags by the dozens.

Gip, said Olpert, climb down, get on the door.

The boy swung over the railing and dangled a hesitant foot. Just step down, Olpert said, steadying the door, I’m right here. Gip said, Sure? and Olpert said, Sure, and the boy dropped, landed on his knees on the door, which wobbled but didn’t tip, then flattened onto his stomach, knapsack riding his back. I’m on it, he said.

Sam, come down, said Olpert. This is the only way across. If you stay you’ll drown.

I can’t swim, he said.

It’s not swimming, you just have to kick.

Sam picked at his facial wound, sniffed what smeared his ducktaped fingers. A pause. And with a shrug folded over the railing and flopped into the water below. The door nearly capsized, Gip clung to its edges, and when Sam surfaced his blindfold had gone askew.

Olpert pulled the wet rag over those dead pink eyes and placed Sam’s hand on the door’s handle. Next he whisked a Bargain Zoom bag through the air, tied it swiftly: an inflated bladder. Hold this with your other hand, he said, passing it to Sam, then made a similar float for himself and moved to the door’s opposite side.

We’re going to cross now, said Olpert. Sam, kick. Gip, lie there and hold on. Okay?

The current carried them briskly into the Cove. Gip sprawled facedown, white-knuckling the door’s edges, while Sam and Olpert paddled. The temperature of the water plummeted. Sam, yelled Olpert, keep kicking! We’ll stay warm if we keep moving. And though with every swell and dip the raft pitched and icy water washed over the sides, the waves felt to Olpert like hands, passing them shoreward all the way to the city.

HE FATHER-DAUGHTER Poole duo was escorted first to Lakeside Campground to gather their luggage (the minivan could be collected, they were told, upon the bridge’s. . rematerialization), then down into People Park. The previous day’s snowfall had melted into a brown gravy, Kellogg and Elsie-Anne found a dry knoll behind the gazebo where they sat upon their bags. But as more evacuees arrived they were forced to stand, penned in by Helpers stalking the periphery like bored shepherds.

A man with a camera asked to take Kellogg and Elsie-Anne’s picture, they complied, he furnished a business card: Ruben Martinez, Photographer . He’d come here solo, he told them — Kellogg pulled his daughter a little closer — and had been staying at the Grand Saloon until getting tossed that morning. Two of those guys in khaki came to my room and were all, You’re going home, and I was all, But I’ve paid for tonight, and they were all, All nonresidents are going home, get your stuff together, and that was it, and here I am, said Martinez brightly, as though being interviewed for TV.

My son went missing, my wife’s looking for him, Kellogg said, and held up his wedding band as some sort of proof.

Martinez nodded. I mean, as far as a refund goes I don’t really care. I can afford it. But this is supposed to be my vacation, know what I mean? Those permits were a hassle!

This was supposed to be our vacation too, said Kellogg. And then my kid goes missing! I mean, he’s got to be somewhere, right? My wife’s from here, she’ll find him. I’m not worried about it. Though we did have to abandon our car too. .

Thing is I can’t even say for sure if they credited my account. I mean, not that I care. Money’s just paper. But it’s annoying, know what I mean?

Yeah, said Kellogg, fanning himself. Getting hot out here, huh?

I got some great snaps on Friday night. Pretty spectacular, that stuff with the bridge.

That was my son up there.

Where?

Onstage. With Raven? Gip Poole, our little guy! He’s the one missing though.

So was he in on it?

No, no.

But you said he disappeared too.

What?

Like the magician, like the bridge.

Wait. A bead of sweat scurried down Kellogg’s spine. No, wait.

From the gazebo came a siren: a Helper stood atop Raven’s trunk with a megaphone. You’re all going home soon, he shouted, the amplification tinny and weird. We’ve got water for everyone, we — his words were lost in a honk of feedback.

Six people clapped wanly.

The morning’s placid obedience was souring, the air prickled and itched.

Martinez knelt to shoot a pair of Helpers, was bumped from behind mid-photo, and, teeth bared, wheeled at his aggressor — a young mum wearing a baby in a sling. To Kellogg he said, Soon as people get a little stressed they start acting like animals. Though what’s the order here? There’s no line! When it’s time to leave, who goes first?

Kellogg didn’t know.

Helpers moved through the crowd handing out bottled water. Kellogg took two and said, Hiya, any idea what’s going on? You’ll be going home soon, recited the Helper, and turned away. Kellogg gave Elsie-Anne one bottle, the other he splashed onto his face, the water was lukewarm and brackish, bloodlike. Martinez sipped his gloomily. No point holding a spot if there’s no line, he said, hoisting his camera, gonna go get some snaps.

He disappeared into the crowd.

The air had thickened into a clammy goo, in it limbs jellied and even breathing took effort. Kellogg looked around: every face shared the same droopy look. Across the pond he recognized the young couple from the campground. Annie, look, there’s shade with those folks by the boathouse, I know them, Kellogg said. He took his daughter’s hand, shouldered her bag, and wheeled his suitcase at the closest thing he had to friends.

Hi, we met yesterday? At the campground? We were the next site over.

We’re not even supposed to be here, said the boy.

It’s because we were camping with tourists, no offence. And we’re not residents, is what they’re saying, even though we fuggin live here.