Behind us, the bridge made a sound like metal pulling on a coat it hadn’t worn since the ‘70s. The operator called out, “We’re good,” before the sound finished. The wrecker’s cable changed pitch by a hair and then kept singing.
At the lot, the world reorganized. Blankets became tents. A Sunday school rug with painted oceans turned into a triage pad. The woman with the pizza box roster peeled the soggy top layer off and started a new list on the clean cardboard underneath. Ms. Patel matched names to faces with the speed of someone who has practiced thinking in lists and loves whom those lists hold.
Doc moved among the kids, touching wrists with two fingers, asking simple questions, counting aloud. “Tell me your favorite ice cream,” he said to a boy with a trembling lip, and when the boy squeaked “mint,” Doc said, “Correct,” and handed him a cup of lukewarm water like a prize.
