The last child inside was the smallest—hair in two damp puffs, eyes bright with the kind of bravery that comes from watching every older kid go and deciding you can match them. “Name?” Ms. Patel asked, voice like a hand.
“May,” she whispered.
“May,” Ms. Patel repeated, smiling even in the rain. “May we bring you out?”
A tiny nod. May reached. June gathered. Doc was ready.
The river, offended by our optimism, took a piece of the road the size of a doormat and swallowed it without sound. The light pole flexed and settled. The third anchor strap, stretched over the edge of concrete, began to fuzz—just a few bright threads lifting where they rubbed the gritty lip.
I saw it first because I was looking for something to go right and the eye finds fray like a tongue finds a chipped tooth. “Rook!” I yelled, pointing. “Strap!”
