“Hold,” the operator said, already feathering tension.
The new surge rolled under Luke and took him a foot sideways. He flattened—trained reflex by another name—and reached for something that kept not being there. June grabbed his harness and missed—the river peeled her hand away without drama, without gloating, just physics.
“Luke!” I heard myself say, too late to be useful.
He tucked his chin, let the water pass above instead of through him, and reached again. His palm met a rib of frame and slid. The current made a small plan to carry him against the concrete pillar and then downstream into the mouth where the dumpster had not gone.
“Line!” the captain snapped. A firefighter next to her flicked a throw bag open in a single practiced gesture and cast. The rope crossed Luke’s shoulder and tugged. He rolled his wrist, caught it, and held.
