“I’ve got wheels,” I said, sliding the dolly under the tanks and cinching the strap. The axles complained, then agreed to the plan.
At the stairwell, Rook had threaded a neon strap through the lowest rung and knotted a loop into a moving quilt. “Sled,” he said, as if naming made it so. A nurse settled Ms. Greene—tiny, hair like dandelion fluff—into the nest. “My knees,” Ms. Greene apologized to no one.
“They’ve done their part,” June said. “Tonight, you ride.”
We went one flight at a time. Luke and a firefighter carried Mr. Alvarez like he was a story they didn’t want to drop. Rook guided the sled on the inside rail, letting gravity be an employee instead of a boss. At the landing, we traded oxygen tanks with the rhythm Doc had used with breaths at the bus—count, check, count.
Halfway down, Mr. Alvarez tapped Luke’s sleeve. “Photo,” he said, chin toward the room they’d left. “My Rosa.”
