“Talk to me,” the operator said into a headset, eyes on the spool.
“Two feet,” Luke answered, without looking up. “One foot. Stop.”
He lifted the hook under the bus frame rail and tipped, guiding metal to metal. The hook seated with a sound that felt like a clasp on a life jacket. “Set,” Luke said.
“Hold tension,” the operator replied, easing the cable until it sang a note that wasn’t panic.
“Old strap,” the captain said, eye on the neon band that had saved us and now threatened to become a slingshot. “We need it slack before it decides for us.”
Rook tightened the ratchet a half turn, then backed it two, testing. The strap relaxed a fraction, then tried to tighten again like a stubborn thought.
“We cut under tension and that thing travels,” the operator warned. “We’d prefer not to invent a new headline.”
June glanced from the strap to the receiving line and back. “We can bandage the edge,” she said. “Sleeve and shield.” She turned to me. “Do you have more blankets?”
