“Then we have five more pairs of arms,” the captain said, as if the math solved itself. “We work high to low. Quiet is speed tonight.”
June was already scanning: narrow stairwell, rubber treads, handrails cool and trustworthy. “We’ll turn quilts into sleds,” she said. “Rook, run a strap through the bottom rung, keep the ride smooth. Nia, your dolly’s a tank mule—oxygen gets wheels.”
The second floor was dim on purpose, generators saving their last manners for monitors. In Room 204, Mr. Alvarez sat on the edge of his bed, shoes on the wrong feet, dressed in the best shirt he owned—Sunday plaid. A photo of a young woman in a white dress watched from the bedside table.
“Evening, Mr. Alvarez,” June said, voice shifting into soft. “We’re going for a field trip. Church hall. Coffee. Possibly bingo by accident.”
He blinked once, then twice. The second blink looked like agreement.
