“Agreed,” Doc said. He didn’t look disappointed. He looked relieved to stop bargaining with physics.
On the bank, a line of towels and blankets made a bright path away from the edge. The woman with the laundry basket had somehow turned mismatched socks into pairs that looked daring instead of improvised. The business suit man—bare-armed, goose bumps like Braille—held an umbrella over three children as if it were a roof he trusted. The woman in scrubs tucked a hot pack into the back of a shivering little girl’s hoodie and made a silly face that earned a laugh bigger than the girl was.
Zoe stood, still wrapped with Liam, and looked toward June. Not a plea—just a question: Are we done?
“Almost,” June mouthed back. “Almost,” and held up a finger that meant one more check, not one more child.
Luke started to rise and winced. Doc was there with a hand and a look. “Sit,” he said. “You did your part.”
