“Mr. Hines,” June called, voice bright enough to be heard but not to spook. “We see you. We’re going to get a rope to you. You’ll clip it across your body and turn toward us. Don’t fight the water. Let us do the work.”
He blinked twice like she’d told a joke he wanted to get. The T-shirt lifted which might have been a nod.
The captain looked at the flow, then at Rook. “Angle off the oak, not the signpost.”
“Copy,” Rook said. He eyed the tree, an old one whose roots knew this game, looped the line around a low fork, and tied a bowline with one practiced twist. He gave the line to a firefighter and backed up for the throw.
“Ready,” June said, hands out like a catcher.
Rook’s bag arced. The line hissed. The throw hit the car roof and slid, red bag bumping the windshield. Mr. Hines fumbled, missed, fumbled again. His hand found it like a fish learns a new current. He stared at the carabiner as if it were a lock he’d never seen.
