We rolled in, and it was instant chaos—brown water erupting from the street, horns blaring, people filming instead of moving their cars.
I waded in, boots filling, pants soaking, thinking about 6:30 the entire time.
Every minute tightened around my chest.
Five-thirty passed while we wrestled hoses and cursed rusted valves.
At 5:50, I climbed out, soaked and shaking.
“I gotta go,” I shouted to my supervisor, grabbing my bag.
He frowned like I’d just suggested we leave the street underwater.
“My kid’s recital,” I said, voice tight.
He stared for a second, then jerked his chin.
“Go,” he said. “You’re no use here if your head’s already gone.”
That was his version of kindness.
I ran.
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