{"product_id":"the-valley-and-the-flood-isbn-9780593114377","title":"The Valley and the Flood","description":"\u003cb\u003e\"A tense and beautiful tale about the monsters we make and the memories that haunt us.\" —Kate Alice Marshall, author of \u003ci\u003eI Am Still Alive\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eRules for Vanishing\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRose Colter is almost home, but she can't go back there yet. When her car breaks down in the Nevada desert, the silence of the night is broken by a radio broadcast of a voicemail message from her best friend, Gaby. A message Rose has listened to countless times over the past year. The last one Gaby left before she died.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo Rose follows the lights from the closest radio tower to Lotus Valley, a small town where prophets are a dime a dozen, secrets lurk in every shadow, and the diner pie is legendary. And according to Cassie Cyrene, the town's third most accurate prophet, they've been waiting for her. Because Rose's arrival is part of a looming prophecy, one that says a flood will destroy Lotus Valley in just three days' time. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRose believes if the prophecy comes true then it will confirm her worst fear—the PTSD she was diagnosed with after Gaby's death has changed her in ways she can't face. So with help from new friends, Rose sets out to stop the flood, but her connection to it, and to this strange little town, runs deeper than she could've imagined. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDebut author Rebecca Mahoney delivers an immersive and captivating novel about magical places, found family, the power of grief and memory, and the journey toward reconciling who you think you've become with the person you've been all along.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Valley and the Flood\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA Winter 2020-21 Indie Next Top Ten Pick\u003cbr\u003eA Kirkus Best Book of February 2021\u003cbr\u003eA Booklist Top Ten SFF\/Horror Debut of 2021\u003cbr\u003eA New York Public Library Best Book of 2021\u003cbr\u003eA Boston Globe Best Book of 2021\u003cbr\u003eA 2021 Massachusetts Book Award Must-Read Book\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \"In this ensnaring tale, debut author Mahoney strikes a flowing balance, weaving together suspense, connection, uncanniness, healing, devastation, and hope. Superb storytelling.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e★ \"Mahoney has crafted a wholly unique world, replete with mysterious, otherworldly “neighbors” and a foreboding prophecy that Rose’s arrival in town willbring about an apocalyptic flood...[a] poignant exploration of emotion and trauma.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Debut author Mahoney deals with themes of grief and loss in a Twilight Zone setting...Part mystery, part thriller, part horror-lite.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Refreshingly, wholly original, \u003ci\u003eThe Valley and the Flood \u003c\/i\u003ewill haunt you long after you turn the final page. A beautiful triumph of a debut.\" \u003cb\u003e—Sarah Glenn Marsh, author of the Reign of the Fallen series\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Rebecca Mahoney weaves a tense and beautiful tale about the monsters we make and the memories that haunt us. With the looming threat of the Flood and a town full of secrets, this story grabbed hold of me and didn't let go.\"\u003cb\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Kate Alice Marshall, author of \u003ci\u003eI Am Still Alive \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eRules for Vanishing\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Mahoney meshes flashbacks and the present intricately and effectively, resulting in two equally dramatic narratives...Part allegory, part psychological thriller, this suspenseful debut is a moving study of grief, regret, and PTSD.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublisher's Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Strong and cinematic, and well worth going along with for the ride.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Horn Book\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eRebecca Mahoney is a young adult and middle grade writer, and the co-creator of audio drama serial \u003ci\u003eThe Bridge Podcast\u003c\/i\u003e. She's a strong believer in the cathartic power of all things fantastical and creepy in children's literature--and she knows firsthand that ghosts, monsters, and the unknown can give you the language you need to understand yourself. She was raised in Windham, New Hampshire, currently resides in Somerville, Massachusetts, and spends her spare time watching horror movies, collecting cloche hats, and cursing sailors at sea. She can be found on Twitter @cafecliche.My taillights cut a path down the desert road, flickering with every blink of my hazards. I slide sideways in the driver’s seat until my feet touch pavement, and I look past my trunk, past the steady rhythm of the lights, past where I can see anything at all. But it doesn’t look like anyone else is coming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd of course they aren’t. It’s been two hours since I merged onto the 15. It’s been fifteen minutes since I drove down an unfamiliar exit, following signs for a gas station—which, if it even exists, is still not close enough to see. The only sign of life out here is a radio tower, miles away, blinking its own rhythm back at me. And the people at my destination aren’t expecting me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s all of the things that a driver, alone in the middle of the night, isn’t supposed to do. And most of it was on purpose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI reach across the dashboard past the radio, blaring the only all-night station I can still get from Vegas, and I unlatch the glove compartment. My hand stays with the door as it descends, ready to close it again the moment I see headlights approaching. But I don’t have that kind of luck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy laugh comes out as a breath as my fingers find what they’re looking for, just past the car manual and under a pile of napkins: the smooth, cold screen of my phone. It’s like the setup to a joke my stepfather would tell. \u003ci\u003eI thought we were supposed to be the ones hiding your phone, Rosie. \u003c\/i\u003eThat’s what he’d probably say, if he knew about any of this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt sits flat in my palm, screen blank. I haven’t heard it once since I left Las Vegas. It should be safe to check.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo bars. No signal. That would be why.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Okay,” I whisper to the lit screen in my hand. “No sudden moves.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt doesn’t have anything to say to that. Which is what I appreciate about inanimate objects: no backtalk. But this time, I’d really like its word.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI leave the door open behind me as I follow the path of my hazards. The phone is an arm’s length away like a scout, and I watch the top corner of the screen for a signal. The way ahead flickers in and out, and I stop only at the very edge, where the road back to Nevada extends into the dark. For a second, a bar pops into view. It doesn’t last.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt lasts long enough, though. The phone buzzes once.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy arm jerks back hard, without my permission, and the phone lands facedown on the road.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sound is dramatic enough that for one wildly hopeful second, I think it must be broken. But when I pick it up, the screen is still lit through a spiderweb of cracks. Like I said, I don’t have that kind of luck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo missed calls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo voicemails.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd still, zero bars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBehind me, back in the car, the easy listening jazz fades away,  and a soft voice filters through the rolled-down windows. \u003ci\u003eWe hope you’re still with us, Las Vegas\u003c\/i\u003e, the announcer murmurs. \u003ci\u003eYou’re listening to KLVZ. And don’t you even think of going to bed, because we’ll be here all night\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And so,” I say to the dark ribbon of pavement, “will I.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA shiver of static cuts the signal, and when my head snaps toward it, I can see how far I’ve strayed down the road. I backtrack carefully, as if my footsteps might stir something that the radio hasn’t, and I slide my fingers under the hood to pop the latch. I’ve never fixed Stanley without my mother here before, but maybe the problem will be obvious.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe problem is not obvious. The only thing that’s \u003ci\u003eobvious\u003c\/i\u003e is that Stanley won’t be starting up again anytime soon. He lets out a little hiss and a puff of steam, and that’s about the only answer I get from him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, baby,” I say. “What did I do to you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStanley the Sedan, who has all the sparkle and stamina of his eighth-grade-history-teacher namesake, has never tolerated long drives under the desert sun. Though up until fifteen minutes ago, the desert nights suited him just fine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI shiver. It’s hard to imagine the desert sun now. My thin T-shirt might as well be paper against the wind. I had a sweatshirt at some point, but when I checked my bag a few minutes ago, I didn’t see it. Still in Vegas, if I had to guess.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBehind me, the breeze picks up. And something rustles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI look, though I know there’s no one there. Even if there were, the most expensive thing I own is right here, the gently smoking Volvo that no one in their right mind would steal. But I climb into the driver’s seat and lock the doors.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe radio signal wavers, first to static, then to the kind of thready hum that aspires to static. “Oh, come on,” I mutter, nudging the knob left, to the low, low stations. But despite the radio’s promise, it doesn’t look like it’s going to be here all night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThis is how we die\u003c\/i\u003e. That’s what my best friend, Gaby, would say, were she here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This isn’t how we die,” I murmur to the passenger’s seat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThis is \u003c\/i\u003eabsolutely \u003ci\u003ehow we die\u003c\/i\u003e, Gaby would respond. \u003ci\u003e Desert, middle of the night, waiting for some stranger to give us a lift? We are super getting murdered. Be on the lookout for Rose Colter and Gabrielle Summer, last seen in the back seat of an unmarked van.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eWere Gaby actually sitting next to me, I might remind her that I’ve been listening to her compendium of scary stories and urban legends since we were five. In all the interesting stories, \u003ci\u003ewe\u003c\/i\u003e would be the monsters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI balance my phone on my palm, weighing my options, the silence of the desert versus the two missed calls sitting in my voicemail. Carefully, I hit play. One thing I know for sure now: if someone’s calling you in the middle of the night, it’s not to say hi.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eRosie? \u003c\/i\u003eMy mother’s voice comes through first. She sounds tense, tired—but not like anything is wrong. I’ve gotten good at telling the difference. \u003ci\u003eCan you call me tomorrow, even for a few minutes? Dan and I wanted to check when you’d be home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eThere’s a pause. In the silence, I think I can hear one of my brother Sammy’s cartoons.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eIf—if you change your mind, I can drive over right away, \u003c\/i\u003eshe says. \u003ci\u003eI already told Kathy I might have to take some time off, so. \u003c\/i\u003eShe leaves the thought unfinished. \u003ci\u003eGive Jon and Flora a hug for me. I love you\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI flinch. I know she loves me, obviously. But she never used to say it so much.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe message comes to an end, and the voice changes from Mom’s sleepy contralto to Flora Summer’s voice, wavering like a tuning bowstring. Even in the best circumstances, she never sounds entirely sure of herself, like every sentence comes with a hidden question mark. Gaby used to say that her mom held conversations like she was trying to walk and talk and check for snipers all at once.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eRosie? \u003c\/i\u003eFlora says. \u003ci\u003eI—I know you’re probably driving. But if you get this, I wanted to tell you that you can come back, even if it’s late. We have more than enough room for both of you here, so . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eS\u003c\/i\u003ehe clears her throat, hard. \u003ci\u003ePlease call me. I want you both to be part of this. \u003c\/i\u003eAnd the message ends there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don’t notice until that moment that my fist has been clenched the entire time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wasn’t being totally truthful before. I don’t think you need to be \u003ci\u003ethat \u003c\/i\u003etruthful when the only person you’re talking to is yourself. And I didn’t say anything \u003ci\u003eun\u003c\/i\u003etrue: I did want the road to myself, and my car wouldn’t have survived a daytime drive. But there’s only one reason why I’m here, one reason why I left Vegas just before midnight, four days before I was supposed to: to get out as quickly as possible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI lose track of the phone for a second after the message ends. The second lasts long enough that the first saved message begins to play.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eRose—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eMy hand scrabbles across the dashboard, and I jam my thumb against the cracked screen hard enough that for a second I think I’ve deleted the message instead of stopping it. But I didn’t. I didn’t. I stare at Gaby’s name long enough to convince myself of that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOver the blood pounding in my ears, I hear myself descend into nauseous laughter. It might have solved some of my problems if I \u003ci\u003ehad\u003c\/i\u003e deleted it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFingers still shaking, I delete my mother’s message, and then Flora Summer’s. I leave Gaby’s right where it is, and I tuck the phone back into the glove compartment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then it’s quiet again. Just me and the desert.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis far away from the cities, with all the different patterns of light and distance, the night sky ripples like water. This time last year, that was what I would have been here for: to spread a blanket across the dirt and watch the stars scrape against the edges of the universe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGaby would have been here. And let’s be honest, we’d be driving already. She’d hack into some rancher’s Wi-Fi and find some engine repair how-to. She used to brag that she had as many talents as there were videos on YouTube. My own talents are a bit less practical.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI close my eyes and tilt my head back. I’m not sure how long I stay like that. Or how long the noise goes on without me noticing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e. . . re?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eI sit up, dead straight. But it’s as quiet as it was before.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUntil I hear it again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eRo . . . are . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eI open the glove compartment, but the cracked screen of my phone is black. It’s not until I hear the crackle of static that I remember the radio.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s still at the low, low station I left it at before, but this broadcast is coming from somewhere else. The sound is uneven, unclear. But I’m close.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVery gently, I turn the knob clockwise, but even that’s too much. The static is worse now. Out of the corner of my eye, the radio tower blinks. And I wonder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eRo\u003c\/i\u003e . . . \u003ci\u003eare . . . ere?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eI breathe in, slowly, to steady my hand. And I give the knob the slightest flick to the left.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sound is crystal clear this time. Clear enough that before the voice speaks again, I hear her shaky inhale.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eRose?\u003c\/i\u003e Gaby says. \u003ci\u003eAre you there?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eI hear the next word form in the back of her throat. But I can’t make it out, I never can. I hear muffled words behind her, definitely male. And the call ends as it always does: with a swish of air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then it begins to play again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eRose, are you there? Rose, are you there? Rose—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eAll of a sudden, there’s hard, heavy breaths, drowning out the message. Mine. I jump out of the car, sure that I’m going to be sick, but before I get the chance, I catch sight of it again. West of the road. The tower, its light blinking in time with the cadence of Gaby’s voice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eRose, are you there? Rose, are you there?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eI’m not sure if I make a real decision. It’s an instinct almost as old as I am: go to Gaby.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI packed light. All I’ve got to carry is my backpack—and I do, wrenching it out of the trunk and onto my shoulders. I’m already moving as I turn, but I double back, reach in through the window of the car to snatch my phone from the glove compartment and my keys from the ignition.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe tower’s still visible, still blinking. Not too far away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI turn the broadcast off. But I can still hear the echo, looping through the back of my brain: \u003ci\u003eRose, are you there? Rose, are you there?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eThree hundred sixty-one days ago, that voicemail, timestamped 1:05 a.m., was waiting for me when I woke up. One single short voicemail from Gaby, just minutes before she left the New Year’s Eve party at Ariella Kaplan’s cabin. I wasn’t there. And she wasn’t expecting me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat wouldn’t have been so unusual. Despite what people thought, we didn’t do \u003ci\u003eeverything \u003c\/i\u003etogether. As long as I had known her, Gaby had always had more. More friends, more energy, more willingness to try whatever. She was brave. She was fun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was killed three hundred and sixty-one days ago, in the early hours of the morning, at the corner of Sutton and Chamblys.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI leave the road. And as I start to run, my car, the broadcast, and the rest of the world fall away.","brand":"Razorbill","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300322922725,"sku":"NP9780593114377","price":11.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593114377.jpg?v=1767742032","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-valley-and-the-flood-isbn-9780593114377","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}