Doc nodded and lifted his chin toward the bank. “Receiving line, we’re transitioning to warm and count. Keep names moving. Hot packs under armpits and at the base of the back.” He said it the way someone says grace—simple, essential.
The rescue truck’s floodlights hummed. Rain turned to a million beads suspended in white. The bus skin gleamed dull as a coin rubbed smooth with worry.
“Bear?” June called, tone careful. “Status undercarriage?”
Two, one. One. A different rhythm. Rook’s head snapped up. “That means time,” he said, and no one argued.
The river kept its own beat. It bit another inch from the asphalt under our outer volunteers. Mud cracked like wet pottery. The light pole flexed and settled. The third strap—patched with a teenager’s sweatshirt—held, but every fiber felt like a promise stretched thin.
On the bank, Zoe and Liam shared a blanket and a job. “Four-count,” Zoe told a newly arrived little boy with a lip that trembled like a plucked string. “In for two, out for two. Like we practiced.” The boy’s chest obeyed. His shoulders lowered. Somewhere inside the storm, a small order took hold.
