“Heads up,” she said to nobody and everybody. “We’re not done. Not yet.”
Part 8 – A Different Kind of Rescue
The siren cut off like a sentence mid-word, and the captain tilted her head, listening to a band of radio static the rest of us couldn’t hear.
“Unit Three lost comms at Mill Creek crossing,” dispatch came through at last, tinny with rain. “Single vehicle against the guardrail. Occupant visible. Secondary surge ETA revised—earlier.”
“Copy,” the captain answered. She didn’t say the thing we were all thinking. The crossing was three blocks down, through the low part of town where the road curled beside a knee-high wall and pretended it was taller than the creek.
She scanned our little country of order—the fellowship hall door propped open, cocoa steaming, Ms. Patel with her pencil and pizza-box list, Doc counting breaths, June in the middle of a circle of blanket capes, Luke wringing water from his beard with a towel he hadn’t asked for.
