Lubak returns from a hunting trip across the steppes to find that his city has disappeared under water. There are many people massed on the new shoreline, but none remember seeing his wife or little boy. He calls their names, but there is no answer. He searches for his dugout along the shore, which would have given him hope that they were on land rather than in the house. He calls to each boat which passes nearby, whether they be going ashore or searching through the floating debris looking for people or property. He tries to slog out to where his house was, but it's too deep. The water is full of dead livestock and more than a few dead people.

He thinks he can see the top of a tree which grew over his home, so he climbs a limb of a large, partially-submerged tree to get a better look. There are several bodies floating face-down in the water and he's afraid to look, unsure if he actually wants to find them. He sees the old lady who used to care for his son at times, her haggard face twisted by death amongst a tangle of twigs near the bottom of the tree he's in. He looks toward his house and sees her two sons on what remains of the roof calling into the ramshackle pile of logs and water, hoping she would call back to them, as if their help could be of any use to her now. Lubak can't decide whether telling them about her fate would ease their state of mind or smash it into tiny pieces. He looks down at her again. The thin hair of her advanced age looks non-existent now that she's wet. That mouth used to go on talking forever - now it just hung slack in the water. He screams the names of his wife and boy.

His family lived in one of the huge log houses near the water. They were strong enough for people to live on top, but with the bottom submerged, he had no idea how long the logs would have stayed upright. He got a mental image of the house collapsing on his sleeping family and begins to sob openly. It should have been a good home, it shouldn't have gotten wet where he built it. He screams their names again, only to be answered by the bleating of a baby goat. The kid was swimming near the base of his tree trying to gain a foothold. The man climbs down and pulls the kid up from the muddy swirling mess below. Like all young things, this kid was all legs with a big head and big eyes.....just like his boy. There was little he could do for the poor thing, it would need constant tending and who knew where its mother was. He decided he should probably give it an easy death and use it for food. He was a good hunter and well aware of how to cut and drain the arteries in the neck. Just as he began to draw the knife across its neck, the kid looked up at him and he saw his own child's face on the kid. Not realizing the effect this would have on him, he finished the act of slaying the goat. His child's face and the goat's face had been linked in his mind. His own child could still be lost in this swirling frothy soup. What if somebody pulled his child out of the water? Would they then slay him to save him from a more fearsome, painful death? The little goat kicked his last, then seemed to fall asleep. The man hugged the little thing and, while doing so, screamed his own child's name again.....then repeated it in a whisper. Laying the goat carefully across two branches, he gently stroked its head and began telling a bedtime story. He had only gotten through a few lines before his words faded out. He had another chore to do. He gazed resignedly across these unfriendly waters as he pulled his knife from his belt. He was a good hunter - he knew where that pounding thing was under his ribs. That which, when pierced, relieves one of anguish.......