Then the river made its own choice.
The undermined soil under the light pole, tired of being useful, let go a slice the size of a countertop. The pole leaned a finger-width toward the pit. The neon strap—no longer singing lead but still in the choir—sought tension like habit. It skittered off the quilt sleeve, found grit, and started to fuzz again.
“Not yet,” the captain said, as if to a child reaching for a hot pan. “We need ten more seconds.”
“We won’t get ten,” the operator said, eyes on the cable math we couldn’t see.
I saw Zoe stand. She did not move toward danger—she turned toward the smallest cluster of children and put herself between them and the edge and resumed counting. One, two, one, two. The storm gave her space to be heard. Liam’s hand found her hem.
“Nia,” June said, handing me a rubber bungee from somewhere in her bag. “If that strap snaps, it’ll kick. This will catch a piece of it.”
