The hair becomes a thread; the thread becomes no gap at all.
"Strap's already singing," Rick says. "Truck's in the lane."
"Drop the nose," Madison says. "Use the grade."
"Boat ramp," Gavin says. He sees it in the fractured slit: the ferry's launch slope falling away at the lot's edge, a concrete tongue into black water. "Downhill under, then up by the restroom block."
The pickup on the far curb hauls the strap until it strings like piano wire from hitch to bollard. The faded box truck noses farther out, its fender shaving the painted arrow that insists GO THIS WAY. The gap is a hair and the hair is a rumor.
"Curb," Gavin says. He rides the right tires onto the painted island so the van leans away from rope and toward slope. No brakes; weight and line only. The hood strap hums. River air smells like coins and bait.
"Ready lift," Madison says, pipe wrench wedged under the rope's future path at the A-pillar.
"Don't fight it," Gavin says. "Let gravity do the set."
He turns for the ramp and lets the front wheels fall onto the grade. The nose drops that blessed inch. The strap hits the hood lip, wants to climb, meets the hood tie's angle, and skates along the header with a hiss like dry ice. It tries the roof seam, finds only paint, and slides to gutter.
"Truck," Rick says. The box driver commits, pushing across to pinch them to the bollards. "He'll knife you."
"Touch and go," Gavin says. He kisses the bumper—metal to metal—using the push to yaw the van a half-degree deeper down the ramp. The rope spits nylon hair and whips away. The truck chews its own fender on a signpost; diesel coughs at the insult.
"Clear," Madison says. "Up by the block."
Gavin feathers throttle—engine only—to climb the ramp's right edge, letting the curb write his line—ssss—until the restroom block's concrete corner is a shave point. A round snaps from the far curb. A new coin stars the glass near Gavin's eye. He doesn't blink until after he clears the corner.
"Left of the booth," Rick says. "Then service lane along the water."
"Seen," Gavin says. He threads the booth. The midnight chain lies snake-lazy across the slit; he center-lines it so the diff splits links instead of netting a tire. It clanks and gives up behind them.
They drop onto the riverside service lane—narrow, fenced to the water on the left, stacked with picnic tables and a toppled lifebuoy rack on the right. Lamps throw broken cones of sodium; a footbridge ahead hangs a clearance bar with reflective tatters.
"Pack?" Madison asks.
"Busy with the lot," Rick says.
"Won't keep the rope crew from learning," Gavin says.
They run fifty yards. The lane dips where stormwater found permission. Riprap shoulders the waterline. Gavin keeps the right tires brushing the curb stones—ssss—so the left has inches from the rail. The cracked windshield turns lamps into smeared candles he can still aim by.
"There," Madison says. "Mid-lane—metal—low glint."
"Cable," Rick says, voice flat. "Winch line. Not nylon."
Ahead, a thin silver line stretches from a skiff trailer to the fence post, chest-high and tight. Somebody learned fast.
"Too high for tire-bounce," Madison says.
"Too taut to lift," Rick adds.
"Then we don't give it hood," Gavin says. "We give it glass or air."
"Glass route?" Madison says, already grim.
"On my call," Gavin says. "Windows down two inches. Fingers in."
Air knifes through. Gavin drops the right tires off the curb so the van leans left, lowering the left roof edge toward the cable. The headlight catches the line; it winks like an instrument string.
"Three car lengths," Madison says.
"Bar," Rick says, jamming the towel bar up at the headliner tear. "If it drops inside, I'll fairlead."
"No heroics," Gavin says. "Madison—ready to push the cable up the pillar."
"Ready."
"On me," Gavin says, and commits.
The bumper kisses the cable. It lifts to the hood lip, skates on the strap's angle, meets the cracked windshield at the header seam. Glass shrieks. The cable begins to walk up the spiderweb. Madison reaches out with the pipe wrench through the window slit and lifts, levering the cable a finger up the trim. Rick shoves the towel bar under the headliner where the cable wants to bite. The cable rides steel instead of meat and screams electricity without heat.
"Hold," Gavin says, voice a wire. He threads the lane dead straight. The cable rides the roof seam, shaves paint, and pops off behind with a twang that lives in teeth.
"Clear," Madison breathes.
"Left ahead," Rick says, pointing at a stairway access to the floating dock. "Too narrow. Stay lane."
"Staying," Gavin says. The hood strap hums a thinner note now, tested but still its own oath.
The lane jogs around a maintenance shed. A NO VEHICLES sign watches them pass. Beyond, the footbridge clearance bar is scarred with old vans' overconfidence. High enough. Gavin pins the right tires back onto the curb, and they pass under with room his shoulders don't believe in.
"Cars ahead," Madison says. "Three at the park gate. No lights."
"Rope placement," she adds. "Left bollard. Right truck hitch."
"Fourth tripline," Gavin says. "Third this block." He sets his jaw where it won't tell stories. "We roll the front on the truck's tire and duck, or we fairlead on the bollard shoe and cut."
"Bollard shoe looks gnawed," Rick says. "Won't bite nylon clean."
"Then tire," Gavin says. He kisses the curb—ssss—and lines the box's front corner so the strap rides hood then roof, not throat. "Lift on call."
"Copy."
The strap tightens as the figures pull. The box noses with them, timing like a good trap. Gavin feeds throttle and touches the tire. The nose squats. The rope hisses the hood lip, skates the header, rolls the gutter.
"Under," Rick says.
They're through. The rope whips the rear hatch and snaps off corner trim; plastic skitters like coins.
"Service gate," Madison says. "Closed. Chain. Padlock."
"Angle," Gavin says. He puts the nose forty-five and lets the bumper write a letter on steel. The hinge sighs and accepts.
On the other side, the lane climbs toward a short, older bridge back to the grid. The grade is steep; the slit of sight becomes stars on the cracked glass.
"Brake?" Rick asks.
"Gossip," Gavin answers. He downshifts and lets the engine drag turn gravity into a suggestion. The hood strap hums steady.
Over the crest, the street offers two wrongs: avenue right with lamplight and human traps, or dark neighborhood left with trees and judges. The avenue smells like diesel and timing.
"Right," Gavin says. "We need width."
He turns—and sees it: across all four lanes, a web of straps—three, staggered heights, anchored to bollards and bumpers, with two box trucks poised like parentheses.
"Pick a seam," Madison says.
"Bottom has slack," Rick notes. "Middle is singing. Top is lazy."
"Curb," Gavin says. "Use crown."
He pins the right tires on the gutter tone—ssss—so the van leans left. The lowest strap lifts to the hood lip and slides. The middle hits the header with an angry bite; Madison lifts with the wrench; Rick braces the towel bar. The top brushes the roof seam and peels paint that never had a chance.
"Truck," Madison says. "Left box is moving."
"Earn your parentheses," Gavin says. He threads around its nose by inches, using the tire to compress the van just enough to duck the highest rope. For a breath the windshield is nothing but white threads and motion. Then the web snaps behind like a door that missed its timing.
"Left," Rick blurts. "New cut—between storage sheds."
Gavin swings into a shadow slot between prefab sheds. The walls rake paint with a dry chalk almost gentle after ropes. The slot kinks left, then right, then spills into a service path that wanders behind buildings toward a place the city never advertised.
"Smell," Madison says. "Oil. Tar."
"Ferry maintenance," Rick says. "We're looping the lot."
"Good," Gavin says. "We'll use what they didn't think was a road."
The path spits them toward the far corner of the ferry lot—back where the first strap had been—only now another strap lies snake-quiet between two crouched men. Beside them, a fresh box truck noses from the maintenance lane. Timing, perfected.
"Again," Madison says. "No grade. No shoe."
"We can't go under—too flat," Rick says. "Over means glass."
"Not glass," Gavin says. "Air."
"Explain," Madison says, bracing even as she asks.
"Light pole base on the right," he says. "Two-inch curb cut before it. We bounce the right wheels up, roll onto the base with the tire, and lift the nose a finger while we yaw left into the truck's tire. The strap rides high."
"That's a lot of ands," Rick says.
"Better than an or," Gavin says, placing the van.
The men see his angle and haul. The rope leaps to law. The box truck commits. The curb cut arrives. Gavin climbs it. The right tire mounts the light-base shoe; the nose lifts a finger; the rope rides the hood lip with less hunger and chooses the header seam because it remembers that taste. At the same breath, Gavin kisses the truck's tire with the left bumper, squatting the nose that finger back down. The rope stalls where the header meets the roof seam—uncertain of gravity's vote.
Madison sticks the wrench under the rope and heaves. Rick jams the towel bar beneath the headliner tear. Glass screams. The van keeps moving because stopping is a religion none of them keep.
The rope slips. It rides the roof seam, peels a strip of paint like tape, and spits itself off the gutter with a single snapping clap.
"Clear," Madison says, hoarse and bright.
"Almost," Rick says softly.
Gavin sees the next line before he hears it—the red laser dot crawling across the hood, climbing the cracked windshield, pausing on the web, then steadying at the base of his throat like a fingertip.
"Vantage?" he asks.
"Roof of the restroom block," Madison says. "Prone. Proper rifle."
"Then we don't give him a stationary target," Gavin says. He yaws toward the only remaining slot—a short, mean exit between two bollards, barely wide enough for a belief.
"Rope crew's still there," Rick says. "Hands on fresh strap."
"They'll pull when we're in the slot," Madison says. "Timing."
"Then we beat their hands," Gavin says, and feeds throttle.
The strap leaps from the bollard. The box truck's nose appears at the lane mouth like a blank wall learning to be a door. The laser steadies.
And the gap stops being a gap.