The rain didn’t stop.
It kept falling, day after day, turning ground to slurry and rivers to rage. Now parts of Texas are drowning. Near the Mexico border, water surged through towns that thought they had seen the worst of it.
The Guadalupe River? It rose twenty-five feet in a single hour.
Residents are hiding inside, hugging walls, praying the roof holds. Power lines went dark, leaving thousands in the black. Boats pulled people from rooftops, desperate scrambles for higher ground. No bodies reported yet, which is lucky, because the memory here is still raw.
Last July Fourth, this same river killed over a hundred people.
Twenty-five of them were children.
Think about that.
Camp Mystic, the all-girls camp near Kerrville. The owners, the counselors, the kids—swept away in forty-eight hours of water that turned paradise into a graveyard. People don’t forget that kind of loss. It sticks to you.
Now the waters are rising again. Same river. Different week.
Water doesn’t care if you’re prepared.
We keep rebuilding on floodplains like we have a choice. Like concrete and zoning laws can bargain with gravity. But nature always collects its due.
Who’s ready to evacuate this time?
