Esther Breckenridge stepped out of bed to discover her world afloat.  Knee deep in tepid water she splashed over to the window.  The Magillicuddys' floral davenport was bobbing down the street.  It's just as well, thought Esther.  It was ugly as sin and just as uncomfortable.
      Esther sighed.  She wouldn’t be able to blow dry her hair and there would be no toast for Harold's breakfast, but they could teach the baby to swim. Maybe they should buy a gondola.
      The neighbors gathered in the street to discuss a course of action. Bureaucracy prevailed with the usual accusations and denials.  The government eventually provided gondolas (much to Esther's relief).
       For a while the people bailed, sumped and dredged.  They built decks and stilted their houses, but the water continued to rise.  Hydropower gave way to solar.  Floating panels would rise with the waters; submerged turbines would not.  Stretches of inclement weather often diminished productivity.  Esther had to stop watching television altogether.  The set kept fading out in the middle of her stories. 
       Fringe groups flourished in isolated communes, while the mainstream (Esther among them) scoffed at their regressive idealism.  The Magillicuddys joined one.
       Time went by as they all adapted.  Harold became an amateur hydroponics engineer.  The baby grew fins.  Life went along swimmingly until the day Esther awoke to discover that the sky had fallen, and they were all adrift with their heads (and their gills) in the clouds.
       Esther wondered what had become of the Magillicuddys.