He touched the glass. She slapped the star onto the window. Immediate. Hyper-specific. "Good. Now, look at the red handle. Pull it. You pull it, I give you ten stars."
Rain flooded in. Paramedics surged past her. But Elara stayed, kneeling in the mud, holding out the locket with a trembling hand.
The bus’s oxygen meter hit zero three seconds later.
No response. Traditional ABA would wait for a replacement behavior. But Velocidad ABA had a rule: When time collapses, collapse the distance to reinforcement. She held up a single glowing token—a star. "Touch the window, get the star. Then we open the door."