Blake crawled out onto the fallen trunk.
But he didn't hurry. He breathed. He moved one hand. Then one knee. Then the other hand.
"Emily," he called, as calmly as he could. "Hey, kiddo. It's Blake. You're doing amazing. I'm coming to get you."
"I'm scared," she sobbed.
"I know. Me too. But your dad taught me something. When you're scared, you breathe slow. Can you do that with me? In... and out."
Emily breathed with him. Her sobs slowed.
Blake reached her. He wrapped one arm around her waist, with the beagle squished between them.
"Okay. Now we go back together. Hold on to me, not the tree."
The trunk lurched. A surge of water slammed into it, and for one terrible moment the whole thing rolled.
Blake lost his grip.
He and Emily dropped toward the water.
And the strap went tight.
On the bank, Daniel threw his whole body backward. His boots dug into the mud. The strap burned through his hands. Every ounce of strength he'd ever built, every hard mile, every heavy pack, every man he'd ever carried, poured into that one pull.
Blake never let go of Emily.
Inch by inch, Daniel hauled them out of the current, up the slick bank, and onto solid ground.
Then he had his daughter in his arms, and he was on his knees in the mud, and he was shaking so hard he could barely breathe.
"I'm sorry, Daddy," Emily cried into his neck. "I'm sorry. I just didn't want Grandpa Walt to be sad."
"It's okay," Daniel whispered. "It's okay. I've got you. I've got you."
Behind them, flashlights bobbed through the rain. Richard. Walter, leaning on his cane under an umbrella held by Mrs. Pemberton. The Hendersons. Half the street, in raincoats and pajamas, coming to help the man they used to pretend they didn't see.
Biscuit wriggled free and ran straight to Walter, who dropped to his knees in the mud despite his bad back and hugged the dog like a child.