Page 49 of Night Shift

The voice comes from the front row.

Petra holds her pose.

“What?”

A woman points toward the boat ramp.

“The water.”

I look.

The tide has reached the bottom of the ramp.

That shouldn’t be remarkable.

Except five minutes ago it was twenty feet away.

Petra slowly lowers her arms.

“Is it supposed to be doing that?”

Mrs. Garcia looks toward the bay.

“No.”

Water crawls another foot up the ramp.

Then another.

People begin stepping backward.

I feel something cold move through my stomach.

“Everybody get away from the water.”

Petra reaches for the microphone.

“Okay! Minor adjustment! Let’s move our mats uphill in a calm and orderly⁠—”

A wave slams over the boat ramp.

The first row disappears.

People scream.

Yoga mats shoot across the grass. Water bottles tumble end over end, and the karaoke speaker gives one heroic burst of static before dying with a pop.

“The goats!” Mrs. Garcia shrieks.

Bean bolts uphill.

Two others follow.

Chorizo does not.

Chorizo, displaying exactly the kind of decision-making I have come to expect from this town, runs toward the water.

“CHORIZO!”