By Sarah Sheppeck
Edward coughed as the 507 to Oak Ridge slowed to a stop in front of him. The bus shuddered as it struggled to break, belched thick gray exhaust toward the cars behind. He gestured to the woman standing beside him—an attempt to indicate that she should board first. She shook her head, put up her hand in silent protest, but boarded ahead of him anyway.
Edward followed, tapping his boots against the bottom step of the stairway to dislodge some of the dirt. He dropped a handful of meticulously counted change into the collection slot and took a window seat behind the driver, slouching a bit in an effort to make the best of the molded plastic chair. The plexiglass barrier behind the driver’s seat reduced Edward’s leg room, but he liked this spot. No one else ever sat near the driver, and Edward valued his peace.
Today, though, a man boarded at the next stop and took the aisle seat directly beside him. Edward straightened, made a show of looking around the mostly empty bus, as if to make clear to the man that he could have chosen a seat absolutely anywhere else. The man simply smiled. Edward gave him a curt nod, leaned his head against the window, and closed his eyes.
He dozed for maybe two or three minutes. His thoughts drifted to a sunny, cloudless day. He saw lush, green trees and blooming wildflowers. He also saw headstones. In front of one was an older couple, maybe in their early-to-mid seventies, dressed in black and holding hands. They were crying.