“Across your chest,” June called, miming the move. “Clip into the strap. Good. Turn your body toward me. Good. On our count, small steps. You don’t have to make it pretty.”
He nodded too hard and sloshed a foot sideways. The car shuddered. The guardrail groaned as if remembering other storms. The creek rolled a new color under him, a darker green that meant up-river had handed us more.
“Easy,” the captain said. “Breathe. On the pull.”
We pulled. Not a yank. A steadying. The line tightened; the water pressed; Mr. Hines slid his hips along the door skin like it was a strange dance and we were the only band. Inch. Pause. Inch. Rook backed, heels finding gravel. The oak tree hummed.
The small boom we’d heard earlier announced itself again as a low, shouldered push. The creek swelled up under the car’s nose. The hazard flashers winked as if someone had tightened a wire and let go. Mr. Hines lost the T-shirt flag. It spun and was gone, an idea abandoned in a moment that required both hands.
