June stopped without sliding and lifted her eyes to the creek’s shoulder. “We work high,” she said. “No one goes lower than the bumper line unless the captain says so.”
“Reach, throw, row, go,” the captain said, the old mantra. “Row is a non-starter. That leaves throw.”
Rook unzipped a throw bag and flaked the line like he was laying out a measuring tape the rain couldn’t argue with. A firefighter clipped a second bag to his belt. The operator from the wrecker, soaked to his eyelids and smiling with only half his face, appeared at my elbow with a coil of flat webbing and a carabiner. No one walked anymore; we all slid on purpose.
The driver lifted his arm again, a tired semaphore. The porch light glow of the hazard flashers showed his face for a second, and my stomach drew a small circle. I recognized him from the morning drop-offs—quiet, baseball cap, always a wave for Ms. Patel.
