“Stop fighting the shoe,” Doc coached, presence without volume. “Leave it. You’re not your shoe.”
The volunteer stilled, then twisted his hip flat, abandoning the sneaker with a wet pop. Luke’s hand found his jacket and pulled, not like a tug-of-war but like a slow drawer carefully opened. The man slid. His socks smeared mud. Rook took in slack an inch at a time.
June guided the starfish girl to her wrist. “Good. Good,” she said, like praise in a classroom. “We’ll move together.”
Behind us, Zoe rose to a knee, but I touched her elbow. “Stay with Liam,” I said.
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“I can count,” she offered, like a talisman.
“Count,” I said, grateful. “Loud as rain.”
