“Floor’s clear,” June called. “Coming out.”
She backed through the window, then paused. “Bear, you with me?”
Two taps against the frame. Then nothing.
“Bear?” Doc said, not louder—just closer.
The silence wasn’t empty. It was full of water and weight and the half-second your heart lives in when the metal you’re depending on remembers it’s tired.
“Anchor two, take load,” the captain ordered. “Everyone prepare to reset on my count. Three, two—”
A rumble, low and sick, rolled under our boots. The bus shifted another breath toward the pit. The remaining headlight flickered once and went dark, as if it had been watching with us and decided to close its eyes.
“Bear!” June called, now sharp. She reached farther through the window.
Doc caught her harness, anchored her with a grip that said no and yes at once. “We don’t lose two,” he said, not to June but to the river.
