And then every headlight in the hole flicked off at once, like someone had pinched the night closed.
Part 2 – Names, Not Labels
When the lights went out, the river got louder. It was the kind of darkness that wasn’t just absence but presence—pressing against your eyes, insisting you listen.
“Phones,” June said, already a step ahead. “Flashlights up. Aim for the window latches, not the kids’ faces.”
A little constellation bloomed along the bridge—screens and flashlights cupped in wet hands, tilted down like a blessing. It wasn’t much, but it turned the glass from a mirror into a map. Inside, small shadows moved.
“Bear?” Doc called, steady, like he was paging a patient. He tapped the bus frame twice with a wrench he’d produced from somewhere. Two taps answered, muffled from underneath. Not panic. A message: Here.
Rook had the second rope halfway around a light pole and was bracing with both boots, forearms shining with rain. “Anchor set,” he grunted. “Running backup to the rear wheel.”
