He followed my finger. His mouth tightened. “We need a sleeve.”
The teenager with the hoodie shoved the laundry basket at someone else and ripped off his sweatshirt. “Use it,” he said, already wringing water out with both hands. Rook slid the fabric under the strap where it met concrete, working fast and precise. “Bandage buys time,” he muttered.
June had May’s shoulders. Doc had her waist. The chain had everything else. Rook ratcheted. The strap sang. The sleeve held.
And then—because nights like this don’t ask if you’re ready—the fuzzed threads gave up all at once. The strap popped with a sound like a snapped violin string. The bus pitched a breath toward the pit. Water surged the window.
June locked her arms and didn’t let go.
“Hold!” Doc said, standing into the current that wanted him lower. The captain threw her weight onto the remaining line. Rook grabbed for the free end of the strap, fingers scrabbling for a tail.
