A firefighter appeared at Doc’s shoulder with a long hook and a painter’s pole, quick and quiet. “If he’s under the axle,” she said, “we can lift enough to free his shoulder.”
“We’ll try,” Doc said. “We do what we can without becoming part of the problem.”
Rook ratcheted a breath tighter, then another, then stopped exactly where he should. His hands were wet and sure. The business suit man—jacket gone, tie floated off like a ribbon ten minutes ago—leaned his back into the pole that didn’t deserve his trust and made it stronger anyway.
“On my call,” the captain said to the firefighter with the hook. “Lift and hold—half inch is a mile tonight.”
“Ready,” she said.
“Nia,” June said without taking her eyes off the window. I turned. “If Bear comes up, he’ll need a name the second he sees a face.”
