The River's Verdict

Danger

dangerous whitewater rafting w/ 6 people and even more surf

The river seizes us like a dog shaking a stick—teeth set, tail thrashing spray. I jam my feet under the thwart and grip the grab line until my fingers burn. The current jerks us sideways, icy water biting at my wrists. The glare off the water blinds; the wind cuts sharp. My hands ache. My jaw locks.

Two rafts, ten bodies.

Scott rows with smooth power, that half-grin he wears when the current listens. I told myself I’d come for the adventure, because he’s a guide, and this stretch of river has teeth. That’s before we arrived and I saw who else signed on.

The river looks deceptively open here—wide bends, slate-green water sliding past spruce and gravel bar, but underneath it runs hard and fast, impatient with anything that hesitates.

The lead raft drifts ahead. Two men in red helmets sit in the bow, mirror lenses flashing, laughter sharp as ice.

I know those faces.

My pulse stutters. For a second, everything narrows—the glare off the water, the bite of the wind, the burn in my fingers—and memory floods in sideways.

Clint. Mayer.

Three months of depositions. Evidence reports. Photos clipped to files. Their typed signatures at the bottom of lies. I’ve read their names a hundred times. I’d never heard their voices until last night.

They don’t know me. I live in their footnotes.

“Wave train coming,” Scott calls, voice even. “Stay loose, Jazz.”

He only uses my nickname, like the river renamed me. We hit the chop and the raft bucks, cold slapping my ribs. I laugh, breath catching.

Our raft settles. A strange tribe—Lora, a biology teacher with a lightning-bolt scar along her forearm, and a young couple from Phoenix collecting national parks. Across the water—Clint quiet, Mayer loud, both confident as gods, men who expect things to go their way. On their raft: Hank, one of their field guys, same logo on his drybag; Toby, a college kid filming everything through a GoPro; and Roy, gray-stubbled and barrel-chested, a weekend adventurer who laughed too loud.

Mayer shouts, “High water this year!”

“High water kills fast,” Lora throws back.

“Only if you help.” His grin flashes silver.

I slide my hands under my thighs, so no one sees them shake.

The memory of last night rises uninvited—the campfire snapping low, faces caught in flame and shadow. Whiskey loosening voices. When the circle closed and strangers leaned in, I recognized them before they spoke. Recognition hit like cold water down my spine.

Later, in the tent, river grit still on our hands, I told Scott everything. The case. The bridge that collapsed. The buried memo. The widow who can’t drink tap water without shaking.

“She keeps a chipped mug on her counter.” I rubbed my thumb over the grit on my palm. “Wants to see the crack every morning. To remember who to fight for.”

Outside, the river whispered through the willows.

“They don’t recognize me.”

He stared into the dark. “Let’s make sure it stays that way.” His hand found mine, rough and steady. “You ride with me.”

“Use my nickname.”

He nodded once, jaw tight.

Sleep never fully came. The river breathed outside the tent, a rhythm I couldn’t match.

Now, on the water, Scott runs the safety talk again. “If you fall out—feet up, head downstream. Don’t stand until you hit shore. You stand too soon, the river keeps you.”

Head downstream.

My brain snags on it. Faces hitting rock. Names sliding off reports.

Mayer snorts. “Got it, Coach. Keep my feet pointed at death.”

Lora shoots him a look. “Better than leading with your head.”

Laughter rolls, thin and nervous.

Scott doesn’t smile. “The river doesn’t care how good you think you are. It listens for a second—then it decides.”

Mayer twirls his paddle. “Then let’s make it listen.”

“Let’s load up.” Scott pushes us off, and the river takes hold.

The canyon tightens. Sound hardens. Water hisses under the hull.

Then the yell.

Raft one swings sideways. Clint and Mayer dig too hard, out of rhythm. The bow dips. The stern kicks. For one suspended second they hang—arms flung wide, faces blank with surprise.

Then white explodes.

“Swimmers!” Scott shouts. “Front right, Jazz!”

I lean forward, chest over the tube. Cold slams my lungs flat. The river smells like stone and metal and snowmelt. Mayer bursts up close, eyes blown wide, one glove gone, mouth working without sound.

Now.

Scott angles us in. The raft slews. I grab Mayer’s wrist—slick, heavy. His weight yanks my shoulder down, and something tears deep and bright. Pain flashes hot and immediate.

“Kick!” I yell.

He thrashes instead, dragging me toward the edge. The current tugs.

For a breath, I let it take his weight.

It would be easy. The river already wants him. It wouldn’t look like my choice at all.

Three months of lies press behind my eyes. A bridge folding. A woman gripped a cracked mug.

This is how men like him disappear, from consequences, from names, from memory.

“Jazz—roll him!” Lora’s voice cuts through.

No. Not like this.

I shift sideways, lean into the tube instead of fighting the pull. My shoulder screams. I don’t let go.

“Tube—don’t lift. Anchor!” I torque my shoulder against the tube and don’t let go.

Lora lunges forward, anchors her knee under the crossbar, grabs Mayer’s other arm.

Scott leans across the thwart, rowing one-handed, fingers locking into Mayer’s collar. “Hold the line!” he barks. The couple crouch low, knuckles white.

The raft dips toward the hole. My shoulder grinds. Together we turn him. Water pours off his chest as it clears the tube.

He coughs once, then retches hard.

Behind us, Clint spins downstream. Toby’s throw bag arcs clean. The rope snaps tight. Roy braces, hauling with everything he has.

We punch free. Scott digs hard strokes, dragging us into slower water. “Roll call!” His voice cracks.

Names answer back. Even Mayer manages a rasp.

We eddy behind a boulder and sit there, stunned. Foam stitches the seam white. A raven croaks from the spruce like it knows something we don’t.

Later, we camp early. Beans on the stove. The air smells of metal and smoke. Mayer doesn’t eat. Clint stares at the river like it owes him something.

Scott kneels beside me. “Shoulder?”

“Still attached.”

He grips my arm and pulls, firm and sure. Something slides back into place. Pain flares, then dulls.

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

The river whispers past, cold and certain. “They still don’t recognize me.”

Scott’s mouth tilts, not quite a smile.

Later, in the tent, my shoulder throbs. Mayer’s face flashes—eyes wide, the sound of him breaking the surface, the weight of him in our hands.

The river tested me. I answered. Not for him—for myself.

Scott’s breathing evens beside me; mine follows.

Outside, the river keeps its own counsel.

© 2026 Lynne Curry,

winner of The 149 Review’s Craft Fiction Prize, first published in The 149 Review