“Copy.” She pointed. “Throw bags here and here. Light up the pit. Get blankets and hot packs to the receiving line. We don’t fix what’s working; we make it safer.”
It was a sentence that felt like a hand on the back—steadying, not pushing. Floodlights bloomed to our left, turning the rain into a thousand beads of glass and the bus skin into a dull coin. A firefighter clipped a tag line to Rook’s belt without asking to take over his knot; Rook nodded his thanks. Two others waded to Doc and June without ceremony, sliding into the chain where bodies had been thin.
June put her mouth near the open window and modulated her voice to a calm that made the hair on my arms settle. “Okay, friends, we’ll take two more from this side. Then we’ll check the floor. Heads down, hands to the frame.”
