The raft-house yawed, found the current’s center line, and slid toward the cable like it knew where to bow. The operator didn’t blink. “If she rides up, I hold,” he murmured to the captain. “If she digs in, I dump.”
“Copy,” she said, meaning she trusted him to know the difference.
The first touch was delicate—a glance of lumber against steel, a cat testing a screen. Then water stacked up, green-brown muscle rolling from under the raft’s belly, and the cable took a deep breath I felt in my molars. The porch swing snagged, lifted, and tore free. Nails screamed. The raft nudged higher, then tried to eat the line.
“Push,” the captain snapped.
Pike tips pressed wood. The raft yawed a degree, then a little more, offended but movable. Rook grunted, boots skating, then catching. Luke leaned—not with his shoulders, but with his hips—the way you hold a refrigerator on a staircase: not noble, necessary.
