A thrashing bundle swept by under the bridge, too fast to catch. Jack pushed off the bridge and dove into the stream.

Black, icy water rushed into his eyes and ears and up his nose. The shock of the cold pushed all the air from his lungs. He surfaced coughing and gasping.

The fat raindrops pelted his head and splashed stream water in his face.

Just ahead, Jack could see the little form of Tully in the water. And how more and more, he fought the current less and less.

Ignoring his body seizing up in the cold, Moffitt pushed himself to reach the boy. He grabbed the linen collar and pulled him close. Little hands latched onto his shirt front.

Pushing out from center stream, Jack grabbed the passing bank wall. He received a gash across the palm for his pains, and let go with a short cry.

His second try was more successful. He latched onto the wall with grim determination. Then began the long haul, hand over hand, up the sheer, five foot rock embankment.

Once he slipped on a rock, slick with his own blood. The little bundle hanging on his neck trembled, but didn't make a sound. Moffitt bit his lip and continued up.

At the top, he pushed little Tully up onto the grass, and pulled himself up after. Thunder still rumbled in the sky, but it was far away, leaving them with only the rain to worry about.

"M-Mister Jack, look." Tully mumbled through numb lips. He pointed downstream.

Jack turned. A little object, the water canister, was bobbing down the swollen stream.

He let out a quivering breath and cursed in some Arabic dialect, mindful of the boy.

Scooping up Tully, Jack moved them under a nearby tree. Pine, by the smell. Shivering in their dripping clothes. Moffitt sat close, trying to help Tully warm up and shielding him from the wind.

"Mister Jack," Tully whispered, "your hand is bleedin'…"

The boy rolled to his knees and dug a damp handkerchief out of his pocket. Ringing it out, he gently daubed at the bleeding cut. Moffitt gritted his teeth, but didn't stop him.

In an effective little field dress, Tully wrapped and tied the fabric square around Jack's hand. His upturned eyes shone in the dark,

"Is that better, Mister Jack?" Moffitt flexed the hand experimentally.

"I'll live," he smiled, "How are you?"

"My knee hurts somethin' awful."

"We need to get you home. How far is the farm?"

It no longer rained in sheets, but a steady downward drizzle washed the night landscape. For it was definitely night by now, even though nothing seemed to change. The darkness had only deepened.

Stumbling out of the forest, Jack faced a large wood house in a fenced clearing. A long porch and a steep roof marked it as an older house, but the build was sturdy, and kept in good shape. A soft glow issued from the lower windows, and warmed the marrow in Moffitt's bones.

From where he stood across the large yard, Jack could hear the rain rattling on the window panes.

Hitching little Tully higher on his back, Moffitt began the last leg of their journey.

A woman's voice sounded as Moffitt trudged up the porch stairs,

"Hank? Is that you?!"

Bright light flooded onto the porch and spotlighted Jack. A tall woman stood silhouetted in the doorway.

Moffitt was caught by surprise.

"Uh, Bobby Divvers says hello…"