“Moving quilts,” I said, already sprinting to the truck. I grabbed two heavy pads, the kind that soften corners when you move a piano, and hustled them back. Rook and the business suit man wrapped the strap where it bent over grit, layering quilt over sweatshirt, turning sharp into soft.
“Better,” the operator said, squinting, not promising. “We’ll still treat it like a live wire.”
Luke had crawled back to the lip. Rain cut tracks through the mud on his face. He’d turned the hook into a firm handshake with the bus. “What’s next?”
“Transfer load,” the captain said. “On my count. Wrecker takes weight; ratchet gives. If any part of this sings a new song, we stop.”
She looked at us and the bus and the river like she was about to start a chorus. “Three… two… one.”
The wrecker paid in, cable tightening with a whine that sat on my teeth. Rook eased the ratchet. The neon strap slackened, not much, but enough to falter. The bus settled into the wrecker’s care, like a tired animal shifting to a steadier tether.
