The algorithm pushed another tile—comments blooming under the bad headline, then new comments under the video, then shares, then someone typing Names, not labels as if they’d been listening at our elbows.
“Move the second group,” the captain called from the doorway, bringing us back to the work. “Firehouse route is clear. We’ll get a bus later. A dry one.”
“A bus,” Ms. Patel echoed, softer, then louder as she raised her pencil. “Blue blankets, with me!”
Zoe took her post at the front of the little parade, chin high in a way that wasn’t arrogance but service. Liam gave May the knit cap again and kept his own ears in the shelter of her sleeve.
Luke stepped aside as a cluster of parents came in sideways, careful not to break what we’d built. One mother, seeing the size of him, hesitated a heartbeat the way I used to. Then she recognized his eyes from the bridge and reached for his hand like she needed an anchoring post. “Thank you,” she said, all the vowels long.
