“Go get in the car. You’re getting soaked.”
I blink quickly, trying to clear my vision, but it’s useless. Rain comes down in sheets. “Are all the kids accounted for?”
He nods. “They’re mixed up in the two vans, but they’re all in there.”
“Have you seen Gabriella? She rode here with me.”
“She’s in the first van. I’m riding back with you.”
What?! No!
Booming thunder interrupts my thoughts. My puny little yelp is impossible to play off.
“Go get in the car, Audrey,” Noah says again, this time with less patience than before.
There’s no point in arguing. Now’s definitely not the time. I run for the car, squeeze myself into the driver’s seat, and drop my soaked bag onto my lap.
I take stock of the situation.
Everything on me and everything in my possession is drenched, save for the plastic bag that contains my passport and license. I confirm they’re both still bone dry （thank god） and then I root around in my bag for anything that might help me dry off. Let’s see…there’s a wet crossword book. A wet granola bar. A wet pair of sunglasses. My towel is with everyone else’s in the back of one of the vans, not that it would even matter. They’re as soaked as everything else we have.
The passenger side door opens and Noah tries to fold himself down into the seat. He is too much man for this tiny car. I swear he might not fit. It’d be comical if not for the dire situation we’ve found ourselves in. The longer it takes him to get inside, the more rain pelts into the car.
“Jesus, does this chair move back?”
He pulls a lever and it scoots back a paltry inch. A laugh bursts out of me before I can help it.
“I swear to god,” he groans.
He shoves his shoulders through the doorframe and then shifts so he can tuck his knees up close to his chest. He looks over at me, I look at him. My mouth twitches first, and I fight it, but then we both just start laughing. Big, heaving, tears spring up in the corners of our eyes.
I let my head hit the steering wheel, and the Fiat lets out this pathetic little toot that only makes us laugh harder.
“The next two hours are going to be horrific for you,” I tell him. “I could barely drive this thing in the best of conditions.”
“Right, well, it’s not like I have a choice. I can’t fit in that seat with the steering wheel, so you have to drive. And the vans are leaving, by the way. There’s no point in trying to stick with them. It’s going to be a nightmare driving in this. You’ll have shit visibility.”
“We could sit for a second and wait it out?”
“I don’t think it’s going to let up. Lorenzo was worried some of the roads will flood.”
I heave a deep sigh, trying to keep it together.
“Okay, well…I guess we should get going. Do you want to navigate?” I ask him.
“My phone’s almost dead. Can you?”
I dig around in my bag. Searching. And come up empty. “I don’t have my phone.”
I rack my brain, trying to think of the last time I saw it. I checked the time on it a half hour ago, when I was sitting on my lounger. I remember putting it back down beside me.
“It must be in my towel. Hopefully it made it into the van.”
There’s no point in getting out to look for it on the beach. I’d never find it. The umbrellas and chairs were all getting cleared while we were packing up, and I don’t even think I could find where we were sitting. If it’s not in the towel, it’s gone. I can’t worry about that possibility right now.
“It’s fine,” he assures me. “I’ll look up directions and jot them down in case my phone dies on the way. Do you have that pen still? And the crossword book?”
“Pen, yes. Book, sort of.”
I hand both over. The book is basically just sludgy pulp at this point. There’s not a single page he can write on.
“Right. I’ll just use my hand.”
The traffic in Sperlonga is at a standstill because everyone is trying to head in the same direction: away from the beach, all at the same time. There’s congestion at every turn. Honking, rain, windshield wipers whipping back and forth—none of it will let up.
It’s a good thing I wasn’t trying to stick close to the vans because we immediately lose them. Noah’s phone dies about ten minutes in and he guides me with the directions he wrote on his skin. I tell him to guard those scribbles with his life. I don’t want to end up in the middle of nowhere in this downpour.