“You already are,” I said. “You started a rhythm.”
“What kind?”
“Counting,” I said, and she nodded like she’d been waiting to be told a job. She touched her brother’s elbow. “We’ll count to four,” she said, soft enough to be a secret. “In. Out. In. Out.” Liam matched her. Their voices braided into the hiss of rain—a metronome that didn’t argue with the storm.
Sirens threaded the air then, faint and warping in the downpour. I braced for the jolt—stop, wait, step aside—that official presence sometimes brings. Instead, when the rescue truck reached the bridge, firefighters stepped down fast and careful and paused just long enough to take in what had already taken shape. Their captain—a woman with rain darkening the edges of her reflective jacket—met Doc’s eyes and lifted her chin. “Status.”
“Windows are our exit,” Doc said, palm flat to the frame. “Chain established. Third anchor incoming. Bus floor may have one down—Eli. We’re keeping weight balanced. Rear wheel is shored with wedges. Water’s at mid-window and rising.”
