“I don’t want a piece of it,” I said, immediately aware my mouth had said a feeling my brain hadn’t edited.
“That’s why you’ll crouch behind the truck tire,” June said, calm as a weather map. “It’ll take the first bite. You take the tail.”
The operator’s headset crackled. “We’re at seventy percent. I can take more.”
“Do,” the captain said.
Rook eased another tooth. The strap drooped a polite inch.
Then the light pole’s base burped a bubble of chocolate water and settled another inch. The strap hissed over gravel and lifted to a pitch I had come to fear—the sound metal makes before it lets go.
“Cut,” the captain decided, no drama, decision offered and accepted.
“Copy,” Rook said, already reaching for the handle on the ratchet with one hand and the backup strap with the other.
Luke put his palm on the strap like you might calm a horse. “I’ve got it,” he said quietly.
