We obeyed. The current pushed, tested, then slid around us looking for a softer place to bite.
Under the bus, Bear tapped again—two, one, two—a small code in a big night. Rook answered by leaning into the anchor line and hauling slack toward a second tie point he’d wrapped around a bridge crossbeam. The rope lifted a brighter note. “We need a third,” he said. “Triangle beats tug-of-war.”
The man in the soaked business suit snapped his fingers. “Tow strap in my trunk.” He started for his sedan, shoes slipping, then caught himself and handed his keys to a teenager in the hoodie. “Blue Civic. Rear well. Ratchet too.”
The kid sprinted. A minute later he came back with a neon strap and the square metal clack of a ratchet. Rook’s eyes lit like someone had put a tool in a carpenter’s hands. “Perfect,” he said, already threading the strap through the bridge railing. “Low and wide. We’ll spread the load.”
