Dana Barnhart’s father was asleep in the basement. The older man was in Milesburg visiting for the night and this subterranean siesta on an air mattress was the closest that he was ever going to get to the honeymoon suite — he did not, however, request the 3 a.m. wake up call. “I don’t mean to alarm you,” Barnhart told him, “but the basement is filling up with water.” By the time that all was said and done, there would be 3 feet of the stuff covering the floor of his makeshift bedchamber, the byproduct of the same type of flash-flooding that Barnhart never thought was possible.