It was dark, and I was alone. The branches of a hackberry tree held me a few feet above the torrent of the Guadalupe River. Minutes earlier I’d been standing in the living room of my family’s river house, on Cookies Lane, where seven of us had gathered for the Fourth of July. We’d awoken around 4:30 a.m. to what sounded like awful banging on the roof and then assembled in the kitchen. My dad, Clint, aimed a flashlight outside as water crawled up the sliding glass door. “We’re in trouble,” he told me. “Big trouble.”My sister, Alissa, was in the kitchen with an arm around each of her kids, four-year-old Rosemary and twenty-month-old Clay, whispering reassurances while they sat on the island countertop, as…
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