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I didn’t notice the cold until my teeth pressed together. I didn’t remember the camera in my pocket until I saw the woman next to me put hers away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand before holding them out for a child. Between the bridge and the bus, a living rope formed. The current shoved. The living rope did not break.
“Name?” Ms. Patel asked each child as they came, steadying her voice. “I need your name.”
“Addison,” said the boy with the backpack. “My T-Rex doesn’t like storms.”
“Addison,” Ms. Patel repeated, as if saying it anchored him here.
The big noises—the river, the rain—couldn’t drown the little ones. I heard a laugh that wasn’t quite a laugh, a hiccup caught on a sob, the lady next to me saying “You’re okay, sweetheart” like each word was a step.
