The rain has stopped, but the water keeps rising. It’s risen a foot since last night, and it’s predicted it will only get worse.
Grandpa guides his wheelchair to the window overlooking the river. “The Johnsons have gone.”
I squint at the “For Sale” sign hanging from their banister. “Maybe we should too.”
“All my years at sea and this is how God decides I’m to die,” he says, brushing the dust off his collection of nautical navigational instruments.
“God didn’t say you have to stay.”
“Did he say I can go?” he asks, but we both know the answer.
word count: 100
Friday Fictioneers challenges you to write a story in 100 words or less using the provided photo prompt as inspiration. Click the froggy icon to ready other stories and add your own.