The captain considered the bus, the pit, the undermined lip. She didn’t like the word slack anywhere near this scene. “We coordinate,” she said. “No free moments.”
“Agreed,” the operator said. He looked at Luke. “You’ve got weight and reach. Up for walking a hook to that frame rail, big fella?”
Luke flexed his fingers, opened and closed them like easing rust from a hinge. “Point me.”
“Keep your profile low,” Doc added. “Do not become a second anchor.”
Luke nodded. He reached for the hook the size of a loaf of bread. It looked reasonable in his hands, which shouldn’t have reassured me but did.
Rook slid beside him with a line clipped to Luke’s belt, insurance on insurance. “Redundant is our friend,” he said, as if reminding the storm of the rules we had made for ourselves.
The operator feathered the wrecker’s winch, paying out heavy cable like a measured breath. The hook bumped Luke’s palm. He lowered into the pit the way a tide lowers—deliberate, reading the bottom with his knees.
