Chapter 17

A large oak tree beckoned. The ground beneath it was drier than some of the spots to either side. It was certainly drier than the river I’d spent half the night in.

“Five minutes,” I told myself.

Unbuttoning my long coat took the final bit of energy I had. I wished I’d had my phone to check the actual length of my river adventure, and to find out if Florence Nightingale was an American. Somewhere in the back of mind, I thought she was. Another corner therein was trying to convince me she was European. It wouldn’t hurt me to sign up for an online History class when I got home, I decided. Either way, my night adventure felt like a full night of work to start off what was supposed to be a week’s vacation.