June looked to me. I knew why before she spoke. Noise-canceling headphones. I kept a pair in my mail truck for long, rattling routes. My keys were already in my hand.
“Go,” June said.
I ran for the truck. The storm tried to push me back; I leaned into it. Inside the cab, I yanked open the glove box and found the headphones tangled with rubber bands and a handful of paper clips. When I turned, a woman in a red raincoat stood there holding out a knit cap. “Take this too,” she said, breathless. “It’s my son’s. It’s soft.”
With the cap stuffed in my jacket and the headphones under my arm, I skidded back to the bridge edge. June took the headphones like a baton in a relay. “Zoe,” she called, “we’re going to slide these to you. Put them on Liam. Then take this hat and pull it down over the headphones. Thumbs-up when you’re ready.”
