A catastrophic rainstorm triggered flooding that submerged half the city. I clung to my feverish, convulsing daughter on the roof of our flooded home, holding on through the entire night. As the murky floodwaters crept toward my ankles, I desperately dialed my husband's number. He was the rescue captain. "You said you'd send the rescue boat to pick up me and our daughter first, didn't you?" His impatient voice came through the line. "Vivian's car is stuck halfway. She's terrified of water. I can't just leave her there." I looked down at my daughter in my arms, her lips turning purple, and begged. "The boat holds six people. If you take me and our daughter, the numbers work out exactly. Please, take us first." He cut me off coldly. "It's already full. Me, Vivian, and her four golden retrievers make six." My hands and feet went cold. My voice came out hoarse as I pleaded. "Can't you leave one dog behind? Or make them squeeze together? Your daughter is dying!" "Vivian and her dogs are a package deal. If the dogs don't get on, she won't either. Stop using the child to compete for attention." The line went dead. Five years of marriage, and my life and our daughter's life weren't worth as much as her four dogs.