It's still raining.

Julian remembers learning about Noah's Ark in Bible study, back when he was young enough that his mom could force him to go. Forty days, forty nights, and there was enough water to create a sea for Noah to sail on in his bigass boat.

He knows better now. He futilely tries to wipe his glasses clean so he can see the nail he's hammering into this makeshift boat on what feels like the edge of the world- Hanghead's Cliff, now the only remains of the population of Borche, Wisconsin. The highest ground within miles of here, and the water level below has been rising steadily for two months now.

Others left while the water was still sloshing gently against their shoes. Many of the very elderly didn't. The parents stayed, too, their children and their homes an anchor to this new reality until they couldn't make it up any farther, no, their children were too tired, and they couldn't leave their children. And so the water raged onward, and if you looked too long, you could see the bodies rolling underneath the waterline, limbs askew, skin tightening against clothes as the bodies bloated, surfaced, and sunk.