“Bear,” I said.
“His,” June said. “Not ours for him. What’s his?”
The question knocked something gentle loose. I’d never asked. I knew his nickname, his vest stitching, the shape of his shadow in the grocery store parking lot. I didn’t know his name. I looked at June, apology rising.
“Luke,” she said. “Say ‘Luke, you’re with us.’”
I swallowed rain. “Luke, you’re with us,” I repeated, tasting the syllable like a vow.
“Lift,” the captain said.
The firefighter levered the pole beneath the axle. The bus moved a breath. June reached, braced, reached again. The river shoved, annoyed we had not given up.
A hand appeared at the window—broad, silt-rough, slick with water—fingers finding the frame. June caught a wrist that matched the hand. Doc’s other hand found the harness and set a new axis. Rook gave two clicks on the ratchet, no more. The firefighter held like her arms had iron in them.
