“Keep him high,” the captain said to Rook, already stepping sideways to change the angle. “We don’t let the current choose.”
Luke moved to the anchor—not in front, but behind—his hands on the rope two body lengths back, adding weight without pride. The line flexed into a low parabola and held. A firefighter flanked June with a pole she hadn’t asked for and made it look like she’d always planned it.
“Halfway,” Rook called, more to the line than to any of us. “He’s with us.”
“Mr. Hines,” June said again, light but direct, “I want you to imagine you’re stepping out of a truck onto soft ground. Low hips. Now take one more. That’s it.”
He did. The car’s rear wheel flipped a lazy arc and bumped the guardrail. The current found footing and tried to take him sideways. He pitched, his shoulder went under, the line went hard in all our hands.
