"I Survived the Great Molasses Flood, 1919" by Lauren Tarshis, Chapters 1–6

A gigantic wave had crashed in to the streets—a swirling, raging monster moving faster than a train. It turned buildings to rubble. It smashed wagons and motorcars and tossed trucks into the harbor.

The monstrous wave was made of a thick brown syrup: molasses. For years, millions of gallons of sticky molasses had been stored in a building-sized metal tank.

The hideous tank loomed over Carmen’s neighborhood, blotting out the sun.

The molasses hovered in the air like a black, roiling cloud.

Horses whinnied in fear.

But today Tony was in a rotten mood. He walked glumly, skinny shoulders slumped.

But today Tony was in a rotten mood. He walked glumly, skinny shoulders slumped.

Carmen had only one memory of that terrible day—dim and hazy like a dream.

Carmen gripped The Wonderful Wizard of Oz harder as Tony kicked a rotten apple core into the gutter.

Sometimes she could practically smell the sweet Italian breezes, a mix of lemons and flowers and the sea.

There was always something new to see in this bustling city.

Most nights the delicious smells of Mrs. Grasso’s cooking wafted under their door.

Rosie was a horse, an old mare who lived at the stable where Papa worked.

It took only a few minutes to get to the tank, which rose up over them like the mountains in Carmen’s village back in Italy. Except the tree-covered mountains were beautiful. The tank was hideous—brown-painted steel covered with syrupy slime.

The molasses tasted sweet, but with a bitter, black- licorice aftertaste.

Plus, being this close to the tank gave her a queasy feeling. She tried not to look at the dead flies stuck in the goopy puddles on the ground.

The North End was infested with vicious stray dogs that roamed in packs.

If you got bitten, you’d die a grisly death if you didn’t get rabies shots stabbed right into your stomach.

What if a worker had fallen in and was drowning, being smothered by the disgusting, bitter goo?

Instantly, Carmen felt calmer as she breathed in the smell of hay and horses and heard the loud nicker of hello from Rosie.

Rosie poked her white head over the door of her stall, flicking her ears and snorting softly.

The flu wasn’t really a killer, like typhoid or polio or rabies.

He looked like a shivering ghost, deathly pale, lips tinged blue.

"Papa?" Carmen rasped, dropping down to her knees.

She pulled a rickety chair over to the bed and sat down.

And then came the cough, a hacking, wheezing cough like nothing Carmen had ever heard. It sounded like little bombs were exploding in Papa’s lungs.

Her mind kept drifting back to the flood after the earthquake, when Carmen clung to Papa’s back as they were caught in the churning sea.

At the end of the bed, Tony’s other little sister, Marie, was curled up under a tattered blanket.

The epidemic spread through Boston and across the country—and the world. Tens of millions had died so far.

Carmen flushed, and smiled a little.