A sound like a sigh went through the crowd when a tiny boy with rain-slicked bangs started to cry simply because crying had become safe to do. Ms. Patel put her hand on his head and whispered his name back to him until his shoulders softened.
“Two more,” June said, eyes on the window. “Then we can re-evaluate the angle and—”
That’s when the anchor line jumped, not a scream this time but a shudder. Rook’s head snapped toward the light pole. The metal itself groaned, old bolts complaining about a job they hadn’t expected to do.
“Hold,” Doc said, calm but firm. “Everyone stay in position.”
The pole held. The rope held. We all exhaled in one long breath.
And then the river, indifferent to our relief, took another bite from the edge of the road. The asphalt under three of our volunteers slumped an inch toward the pit. Mud cracked like wet pottery. The bus shifted, just enough to make every muscle tighten.
