“Luke,” I said, close to the frame, close to the dark. “You’re with us.”
The hand tightened. Another appeared. A shoulder. A beard, rain-matted. Eyes that would have been calm if they weren’t busy doing a hundred calculations at once.
“Out,” Doc said, and June and the captain’s team made it a verb. Bear—Luke—slid into the world, half at a time, shoulders, ribs, waist. When his boots cleared, the bus shifted again, offended. The firefighter eased the pole free. The ratchet sang a warning we didn’t ignore.
“Back!” the captain ordered. “Reset two steps. Keep the chain intact.”
We stepped as a single creature, retreat and hold, retreat and hold, until our heels found ground that didn’t argue.
Luke sat in the water, breath sawed short, hands open on his knees as if he’d been holding up a roof and finally set it down. June squeezed his shoulder. Doc put two fingers at Luke’s wrist, then at his own watch, counting a rhythm that had nothing to do with panic.
