I was alone on the riverbank, screaming like a deranged person, pacing back and forth and gesturing wildly to my right. Pointing toward safety.
“TO THE SHORE! TO THE SHORE! TO THE SHORE! JOSEY, GET ON THE SHORE! COME ON GIRL, TO THE SHORE!”
I could see her head above the water, her white ears cocked back with the effort of swimming. She was obeying me, swimming out of my sight to the shore. But each time she reached it, she got right back in the water to try to swim to me once more. And each time she did that, the river, a freakishly strong pulse of early March runoff, pulled her a little farther downstream. Her head was growing smaller by the second.
I was at the confluence — a peninsula of land hugged on each side by merging rivers — and so could not just run…
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