“Hope she waits to have it until we get home.”

“She’s not due for almost a month.”

“She’s huge.”

“Don’t tell her that,” Faroe said.

They were the last raft in their party to take on Lava Falls. While the other rafts entered the current with whoops and shouts, Lane and Faroe followed Jill to their own small craft. They sat on the inflated gunwale and swished their feet in the water, making sure their gritty sandals were well rinsed before swinging their legs aboard. Then both passengers went to work on the straps securing their individual float harness.

“Ready?” Jill asked.

They answered with a thumbs-up.

Lane had the front of the raft, Faroe the back. Jill sat on the hard rowing bench in the center, facing forward, oars poised above the water. The rapids ahead was clearing of other rafters. She watched the river intently, correcting the angle of the raft as she entered the current. The approach to Lava Falls was crucial.

Do it right and get an adrenaline ride.

Do it wrong and suck rocks.

The current picked up, shoving the raft off to one side. She dipped her left oar and stroked once, correcting the line. The front of the raft started to buck gently as it picked up the first of the waves. She glanced quickly at her passengers, giving a last check to life vests. Sometimes Lane was careless about his. He resented the confinement.

The roar of the coming cataract was like a jet taking off.

“You buckled up, Lane?” she shouted.

He turned toward her, showing that he had pulled two of the three straps tight across his chest. The loose end of the third strap dangled free, eighteen inches of woven fabric ending with a tough plastic buckle.

“Fix it,” she shouted, nodding toward the trailing strap.

He looked down, saw the problem, and took one hand off the safety grip to tuck the buckle up out of the way. The strap was stiff, and stubborn, which was how it had worked free in the first place.