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have felt in her bones the ominous stillness that fell across the land just before the first fat, angry drops of rain pelted from the sky to kick up tiny geysers of dust wherever they fell. But it was Cam, disentangling himself from the slippery tentacles of legalese in the contract he was studying, who noticed first.
    â€œWe’d better think about starting back,” he said, directing Malou’s attention to the downpour.
    â€œBut that was Edward Darden,” she moaned, gesturing to the phone she’d just hung up. “ The Father of American Primatology,” she explained to Cam’s blank look.“He’s just gone to check on a funding report he received yesterday; then he’s going to call me right back. I can’t risk being somewhere that the reception is bad.”
    â€œWell, we certainly wouldn’t want to drop a call from the Father of American Primatology,” Cam jibed.
    â€œIt’ll only be a few minutes.”
    â€œWith the way that rain is coming down, you’d better hope it’s not much longer. Like every other kind of weather down here, rain is serious in south Texas.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” Malou reassured him. “I’ve lived through lots of rainstorms at Los Monos.”
    â€œI’m sure you have, and that’s because Los Monos is on high ground. We’re considerably lower here.”
    â€œJust a few more minutes,” Malou pleaded.
    â€œTake all the time you need. I’m quite comfortable here.”
    And so they waited: Cam stretched out on the couch with his contract and a ceramic mug filled with spring water and some of Mr. Stallings’s fine scotch. Malou perched nervously watching the phone, waiting to take up the conversation with Edward Darden, a man she’d read about in textbooks and admired since her first days in primatology. The sky grew darker and hurled more rain with each passing minute.
    By the time her phone rang, raindrops were pattering down on the tin roof with the machine-gun vigor of a team of tap dancers rehearsing for a Busby Berkeleyspectacular. And all the Father of American Primatology had to report was that he’d been unable to locate the papers he’d gone to hunt for. But he did promise to alert everyone in the primatology community to how dire the situation was out at Los Monos. Malou thanked him politely, hung up, jumped off her stool, and began scurrying about collecting her papers and hat.
    Cam, disturbed by the sudden flurry of activity, peeked his head over the top of the couch.
    â€œIt’s raining,” Malou explained. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
    â€œWhy didn’t I think of that?” he asked, bundling papers back into the briefcase.
    A few seconds later he was holding the door open as Malou bolted out into the cloudburst. They were both drenched by the time they reached the car. Sheets of rain made the short drive to the low water crossing into a twenty-five-minute test of navigation by instinct. Half the journey was conducted with Cam’s head stuck out into the downpour, trying to ascertain whether or not they were still on the road. But the worst was yet to come, and come it did at the low water crossing. Unable to see it, Cam stopped cold mere inches away from plunging into the trickle, which had been transformed into a rushing torrent.
    â€œLooks like this is the end of the line,” Cam announced jauntily.
    â€œWhy?” Malou asked with sudden alarm.
    â€œWhy?” Cam echoed with disbelief. “Malou, there’s no way we’re going to make it across that.”
    A kind of panic swirled up from the pit of Malou’s stomach at the thought of being trapped overnight with Cam. “Can’t we at least try?” she asked.
    Cam’s brow furrowed at the suggestion. “Malou, that water’s four feet deep if it’s an inch. This is no amphibious vehicle. I don’t intend ending up as one of