A boy squeezed through; Doc caught; the chain passed; someone on the bank had a towel that smelled faintly of sunscreen and summer lake days. The boy hiccup-laughed through a sob when his feet touched the towel. That laugh—squeaky and surprised—put a clock hand back where it belonged in my chest.
Then the bus spoke in a lower register—a grind and flex that meant old metal remembered a load it didn’t want. The third anchor strap went tight with a clack-clack-clack of ratchet teeth. The frame steadied. Bear surfaced, hair slicked flat, hand dragging a wedge out of his vest. He shook his head once at Doc, a no-nonsense report: still holding, not for long.
“Two more,” June said again, a mantra more than a count. “We keep the balance.”
The next child was tiny, her shoes light-up ones that flashed green each time she moved. They blinked wildly in June’s hands, then steadied in Doc’s, then sank under a blanket like a lantern under snow.
