I pointed—not at the camera, but back inside, where a girl in a blanket cape had her pencil behind her ear like a foreman in charge of a very important crew. She didn’t wave. She nodded, serious, like minutes were still inventory we needed to manage carefully.
“Who told the riders to enter the pit?” another reporter asked, softer. “Wasn’t that dangerous?”
“The captain set the plan,” I said, and the woman in the reflective coat gave the smallest tilt of her head. “Windows, not doors. Chain, not heroics. Reach, throw, row, go—and row wasn’t available. The rest of us were told what to do because breath beats pride. The riders didn’t improvise glory; they followed instructions.”
The wrecker operator leaned against his rig in the lot, steam curling off his jacket. He lifted two fingers: true.
A third question came from a face with a kind expression. “What would you say to people who see leather vests and make assumptions?”
