Excerpt from A Good Death, manuscript in progress

. . . every spring when temperatures rise, the snow-melt fed Green and Snoqualmie Rivers also rise and claim more lives. Every damn spring. The newspapers report their deaths—usually teenagers, but occasionally a youngster. The child’s mom or dad sometimes attempts a bold rescue, but quickly both become flotsam floating a few miles downstream. Each time, my heart aches for them until I become angry because nobody reads the papers anymore.