The truck could take them as far as the stair.
Its driver had said that twice, first to Kellan’s runner and then to the son himself. The road beyond the freight block remained closed to vehicles. People could pass on foot through a side approach, but it ended in six stone steps before the lane rose toward the shelter.
The injured neighbor could not climb them. The handcart carrying one of the tunnel survivors could not safely be tilted up them. The truck’s ramp would bridge the first three and leave a dangerous angle at the fourth.
Eli stood at the top with the driver and measured the remaining distance. For an instant he wanted to lay the problem flat with the force of his frustration. They had found the missing neighbors, escaped the tunnel, and brought the block together. A short stair should not have been able to undo all of it.
It could.
Below, the son sat beside the injured man while Tessa checked his leg support. He had stopped asking how much time remained before the loading entrance closed. The question had become unbearable once no honest answer improved it.
“Take the others,” he said when Eli came down. “We’ll stay here until somebody finds another way.”
