The final hole

Rock couldn't miss. Every single putt he attempted had rolled in throughout his round. He was on the final hole, and his approach shot stopped on the fringe, ten feet from the pin.
This would be Rock's first chip shot of the day. Chips had become a strength of his game, but he bladed this one, and it motored toward the hole, seemingly destined to roll all the way across the green and into his own backyard.
But he couldn't miss. Rock's shot slammed into the pin and dropped to the bottom of the cup, just as he should have expected on a day like this.

The flood

Rain had fallen all night the night before, but there was more involved in this late afternoon flood in Levy. Water, thick with what looked like sludgy, black oil, was already at least two feet deep on Orange Street. It flowed north to south and ran through yards and up the exterior walls of all of the houses, including Rock's. It had reached his front porch and was getting deeper. It made no sense to him. He couldn't imagine the source of this water, but Rock feared he might drown.

A perfect place

Rock knew he was in a nearly perfect place. Everything about his life was set by circumstances he had put into place years earlier when he was capable of such arrangements. There was still enough mystery to maintain his interest, but he was confident all would turn well as long as he lived.
It was cool in his house. Hogan's Heroes was on TV. Rock was hungry and a bit lonely, but his cat Joe was nearby, and he couldn't think of anything he wanted.

Silliness

A test had been arranged by someone to see how Rock and his cat Joe would react to separate 6 a.m. wake-up times, the first of which was work-related and the other established for no obvious reason on a typical Sunday morning free of obligation.
Both were up at 6 a.m. sharp for the former. For the latter, Rock climbed out of bed with Joe at 6:02. He let the cat out through the back door, ate a bowl of Bran Buds and a handful of walnuts, and wondered what this silliness was all about.

In deep

No one had ever seen so much rain at a 100-mile trail race. Runners had been on the course for most of a day, and it fell throughout.
Rock was with Bob Marston near the finish line on a paved county road. It was late at night and dark in this secluded section of a national forest. Water flowed across the road and was avoidable only through careful navigation that Bob seemed incapable of. Rock laughed to see him up to his waist in water in the front yard of a country house near a crowd of volunteers gathered at the finish.