Bear waded farther, felt under the chassis, set his shoulder against the steel. The bus shifted a breath toward level. June took the second child. Rook hauled the rope hand over hand and tied it again, then again, and I understood that sometimes bravery looks less like a leap and more like a knot you tie until your fingers ache.
The river kept climbing. The bus groaned like something old remembering it was tired. From inside came the girl again—the one with the calm eyes—pressing her forehead to the glass above the little boy’s hood. She mouthed another word I couldn’t hear, then two syllables I could read even through rain.
Liam.
Doc caught my look, followed it, and nodded once. “We’ll get them,” he said, as if promising the weather.
That’s when the anchor line screamed, a high wire note swallowed by water. The rear wheel slid an inch, then two. Ms. Patel gasped and reached for the frame. June planted her feet and held on. Rook sprinted for the beam. Bear disappeared beneath the dark belly of the bus.
