“Liam,” I said, “you did something very difficult. You did it well.”
He looked past me to the bus, searching the faces. “Zoe?” he asked, small and certain.
“She’s coming,” I promised, and meant it.
June checked the faces inside. “Keep them low,” she told Ms. Patel. “We have to balance weight until we get the last row.” The last row. Where the bus carried history—lost pencils and gum wrappers and the heaviest moment of every day.
Another child slid out—Addison again, clutching his dinosaur backpack to his chest like a life jacket. “Buddy,” Doc said with a smile, “you get to go twice?” Addison blinked and then giggled, which seemed to surprise him. Ms. Patel laughed softly too, a sound like a match catching in wet kindling.
Rook retied his knot, and I watched his fingers work the rope like it was fabric he’d mended a thousand times. Redundant, June had said. Redundant is our friend. The river wanted us to make a mistake. We answered with two of everything—two anchors, two hands, two people at each pass.
