The baby opossum’s pale face was barely above the water when Sam Whitaker first saw it.

Rain hammered the backyard of a vacant rental home in Hilliard, Ohio, turning what had been an ordinary drainage swale into a fast-moving ribbon of brown floodwater.

Whitaker, 42, a Franklin County animal-control officer, stopped at the edge of the bank.

“Lena, I’ve got it.”

Wildlife-rehabilitation volunteer Lena Cho, 29, moved up beside him.

A tiny Virginia opossum was clinging to the tilted frame of a wooden rain-barrel stand.

The animal appeared to be about 10 weeks old.

Its pale gray face was soaked. Dark ears lay flat against its head. Its pink nose pointed just above the water, while its thin tail wrapped awkwardly around part of the wooden frame.

And the stand was sinking.

The late-August storm had stalled over the neighborhood, dumping heavy rain across the residential block. Nearly two inches had fallen in about 40 minutes, overwhelming the drainage swale behind several homes.

At the vacant property, saturated soil had collapsed beneath the rain-barrel stand.

The wooden frame toppled toward the flooded ditch.

The young opossum, likely separated from its mother during the sudden surge, had scrambled onto the structure as the water rose.

A neighbor called authorities after hearing what she described as “something small crying” behind the house.

Whitaker’s chest-mounted body camera captured the first clear view.

The joey was only a few feet away.

But getting to it was not simple.

The bank between the rescuers and the stand had turned to unstable mud.

Whitaker tested the surface with one boot.

The ground sank immediately.

Another step could collapse the bank entirely, sending mud, debris and possibly the animal into the drainage culvert downstream.

Lightning was still active nearby.

The team had to move quickly without moving recklessly.

Cho retrieved a wide garden board from near the back patio and placed it across the softest section of ground, spreading their weight over a larger area.

Whitaker advanced slowly.

Rainwater ran around his boots.

The opossum watched him approach.

Then suddenly, it let go.

The tiny animal rolled forward.

Its face dropped into the water.

For a horrifying moment, it stopped moving.

“Sam!”

Whitaker reached forward, but then stopped himself from lunging.

The opossum appeared completely limp.

To anyone unfamiliar with the species, the scene looked catastrophic.

But Cho recognized another possibility.

Virginia opossums are famous for entering an involuntary defensive state often described as “playing dead.” When severely frightened, they can become rigid or limp, remain motionless and appear unresponsive.

This was not a conscious trick.

It was a physiological stress response.

Still, the rescuers could not assume that was the only explanation.

The joey was in cold floodwater.

Drowning and hypothermia remained real dangers.

Whitaker moved onto the board and reached the tilted stand without stepping onto the collapsing mud shelf.

Cho passed him a blanket.

Rather than grab the animal directly, Whitaker draped the fabric over its body and used it to lift the joey away from the water.

The opossum remained limp.

Its mouth was closed.

Its body felt cold through the blanket.

Then Cho noticed something.

The tail moved.

Barely.

But it moved.

They carried the joey immediately to high ground.

A ventilated animal carrier had already been positioned at the top of the bank.

Whitaker placed the bundled opossum inside while Cho left the carrier door open long enough to watch its breathing.

Rain continued pounding the plastic roof.

Behind them, the swale kept rising.

Under the edge of the blanket, the joey lay motionless.

Its tail twitched once more.

The team transported the animal to a wildlife rehabilitation center for evaluation.

There, staff dried the joey, gradually warmed it and performed a full examination.

The results were better than anyone had feared.

There were no fractures.

No evidence suggested water had entered the lungs.

The animal was mildly hypothermic and underweight, but otherwise physically intact.

Over the following hours, the opossum slowly became more responsive.

Its eyes opened.

It lifted its head.

By the next day, it was eating.

Because it was too young and too small to survive independently, the joey remained in rehabilitation.

It was eventually housed with two other orphaned opossums of similar age.

Over the next eight weeks, the three animals learned to forage, climb and avoid excessive human contact.

By early fall, all three were ready to return to the wild.

Rehabilitators released them at dusk into a protected ravine corridor at Battelle Darby Creek Metro Park.

The area offered dense vegetation, fallen logs, natural shelter and access to insects, fruit and other food.

The animals disappeared into the brush within minutes.

Weeks later, trail-camera footage from the area captured three young opossums foraging together after dark.

For Whitaker and Cho, the rescue left behind more than a good ending.

The property owner later agreed to stabilize the rain-barrel stand and clear debris from the drainage swale.

The county also added the neighborhood to a storm-patrol route during periods of heavy summer rain.

But the image that stayed with the rescuers was far simpler.

A tiny animal.

A rising flood.

And one terrifying moment when going completely still looked exactly like the end.

It wasn’t.