“Okay, Zoe,” June said, turning back, “your turn. I’m right here.”
Zoe looked once more at the cluster of small faces, then put two fingers to her lips and touched the window, a quiet promise. She swung her legs through with a focus that would have looked like fear if not for the steadiness of her breath. June and Doc lifted her. The chain lifted her. She reached the bank, and Liam’s blanket opened on instinct, making room for her under its warmth. He leaned into her shoulder. She leaned back.
There were still children inside. Four, maybe five. The water ticked up another finger-width. The second rope thrummed. A fragment of asphalt calved from the edge and plunked into the sinkhole, swallowed without ceremony.
“Bear,” Doc called, “how’s our wedge?”
Two taps, one tap. Good enough.
We moved two more kids. The chain adjusted, stronger now that it knew itself. The woman in scrubs counted breaths out loud with a boy who couldn’t find his own rhythm. The business suit man shed his jacket and wrapped it around a girl with a glittery backpack. The teenager with the laundry basket swapped socks, laughing about how mismatched feet were the height of fashion. We weren’t just moving bodies. We were shrinking a crisis to pieces we could carry.
