The Bus Ride Home
By Wesley Sanders
The streetlights along the narrow road flickered sporadically, casting long, jittery shadows that danced in the thick fog. The sky above was a bruised shade of purple, suffocating the stars beneath the weight of an oncoming storm. Mist curled up from the cracked pavement, cloaking the town in eerie stillness. The houses they passed stood silent and hunched, their windows dark and blank, as if the whole town was holding its breath. A trash bin clattered in the wind somewhere, but otherwise, the streets were hollowed-out echoes of life. Only the low hum of an engine and the groan of brakes broke the silence.
The bus crawled down the empty road at a sluggish pace. Behind the wheel sat Bill Slovack, his face locked in its usual grim expression. Bloodshot eyes, a tight jaw, and a stiff posture marked him as a man who’d done the same job for far too long. His navy uniform sagged at the shoulders, and the plastic ID badge pinned to his chest was cracked and faded. A Styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee sat beside him, untouched, the bitter scent drifting upward.
Every bump made the interior rattle, the flickering fluorescent lights above barely illuminating the cracked seats. A faint smell of old vinyl and cleaning chemicals hung in the stale air. Bill's hand rested heavily on the wheel, fingers twitching at each groan of the aging bus.
Bill glanced at the rearview mirror. Two passengers slumped in the back, heads down. He didn’t care who they were—drunks, runaways, lost souls. As long as they paid and stayed quiet, they could ride in peace. He wasn’t getting involved. Never had, never would.
Up ahead, he spotted movement—a shadowy figure flailing desperately at the next stop. Bill sighed and rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead. He hated making extra stops, especially this late, when all he wanted was to finish his shift and crawl into bed. Still, protocol was protocol. He eased the bus to a stop with a long hiss of air brakes.
The doors creaked open. A pale girl stepped onto the platform. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen. Her dirty blonde hair clung to her face in damp strands. Her cheeks were streaked with dirt, lips cracked and bleeding. A black turtleneck hung off her frame, ripped along the sleeves, and her jeans were caked in mud. One foot wore a filthy sock; the other, a muddy sneaker with frayed laces.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, voice trembling. Her eyes kept darting over her shoulder like she expected someone to step out of the fog behind her.
Bill barely turned his head. “What?”
“Do you have a phone? I need to call someone—please.”
“No,” he replied flatly. “This isn’t a phone booth.”
She hesitated. “A radio, then? Anything. Please, I just need—”
“I said no.” His voice was sharper this time. “Pay the fare or get off.”
She fumbled at her pockets, empty hands shaking. “I don’t have any money… Please, I need to get away. Someone’s—he’s coming for me.”
Bill rolled his eyes. Another one. Always some story at this hour. Two-fifty. That was the rule.
But something in her voice reminded him of a girl he picked up three years ago. That one had been crying too. Said she was trying to get away from her stepdad. He'd let her ride. Turned out she was just trying to skip school. His boss chewed him out for that one.
He looked down at the girl. Pale. Muddy. Rattled. There was a rawness in her voice that stirred something uncomfortable in him. A feeling he hadn’t named in years.
The clock on the dash blinked 2:17 AM in angry red numbers. He was late already.
He sighed, reached for the lever, and muttered, “Fine. Just sit down. Don’t bother anyone.”
Relief flooded her pale face. She nodded quickly and shuffled toward the back, moving with the stiff, jerky gait of someone exhausted beyond reason. The two passengers barely glanced up. She curled into a seat, arms hugging herself, knees pulled tight against her chest.
As she passed him, Bill caught a glimpse of something else: a dark, oozing scrape on her arm, barely crusted over. She was shaking. He swallowed and faced forward.
The bus rumbled forward. Bill’s mind drifted. Another stray. Another sob story. Not his problem.
A mile passed in silence. The fog wrapped around the bus like a second skin. Then Bill felt it—the glance. A shift in the air. He checked the mirror again. The girl was looking up at him. Just briefly. Her eyes were unreadable. But he felt them. And quickly looked away.
At the next stop, another figure emerged from the fog. Bill narrowed his eyes. Another kid. Same age. Torn clothes. Wild movements.
She waved her arms, frantic. Her skin gleamed under the streetlight—brown, bruised, and trembling. Her jacket hung off one shoulder, ripped and sodden.
He sighed again, deeper this time. He was too tired for this. The guilt from the last girl he let ride was still raw in his memory. He couldn’t afford another mistake.
He pulled the lever. The doors groaned open.
The girl rushed to the steps, slipping slightly on the wet curb. One foot landed on the first step. She clung to the railing, eyes wide, chest heaving.
“Please,” she cried. “Let me on. I need to get out of here—he’s coming.”
Bill looked at her face. Young. Terrified. But he couldn’t help noticing her skin, darker than the last girl’s. Something in him tightened. Not fear. Something else. A reflex.
“Please... please,” she whispered.
She twisted around, glancing behind her into the fog, then back at Bill. Her whole body shook. She jabbed a trembling finger past him, toward the back of the bus.
“She’s on the bus—look! I was with her. We ran.” Her voice cracked. “He’s still out there. Please. Don’t leave me too.”
From her seat, the first girl didn’t move. She sat stiffly, eyes wide, hands clenching the torn fabric of her sweater. She heard the voice—recognized it—but she couldn’t turn around. She couldn’t speak. She just trembled, sinking lower into her seat.
Bill looked at the girl half on the steps. He imagined what Dan would say. What his record would look like if she made trouble. What it would cost him to get involved.
“No fare, no ride,” he said.
“Please—”
He yanked the lever.
The doors slammed shut, knocking the second girl backward off the steps. She hit the curb with a gasp, palms scraping pavement.
Rain pelted her shoulders. She scrambled up, fists pounding on the glass, her screams muffled by steel and plexiglass.
Bill glanced at the rearview mirror—but not for long. He pressed the gas.
In the mirror, her outline faded into the fog. Then nothing.
An hour later, Bill returned to the depot. He filed a report, vague and short. On the form where it asked, "Describe the incident," he wrote: Refused fare. Became hostile. Removed from vehicle. He almost added something more—but stopped.
Dan asked, “Rough night?”
Bill shrugged. “One tried to get a free ride. Looked strung out. Had to kick her off.”
Dan nodded. “Yeah. You know how it is. Don’t overthink it.”
Bill nodded but said nothing. As he walked out, the depot lights flickered above him.
Driving home, he kept glancing in the rearview mirror. Nothing there. Just the reflection of his own tired eyes. But he couldn’t stop checking it. Like something was missing. Or watching.
When he stepped into the house, Karen was making eggs.
“Morning,” she said. “Rough shift?”
He didn’t answer at first. She handed him a mug. The steam rose in lazy spirals.
He sat. Turned on the TV.
The news anchor said, “Breaking: Two girls, Aaliyah Brooks and Sarah Mathews, escaped from what authorities are calling a serial kidnapper. Sarah is safe at Saint Michael’s. Aaliyah Brooks was found dead near Route 22.”
Bill froze. The mug trembled in his hand.
“The girl I kicked off,” he whispered.
Karen turned. “What did you say?”
He didn’t answer.
The mug slipped. Crashed to the tile. Coffee pooled like blood.
Karen jumped. “Bill?”
He didn’t respond. He stared at the mirror hanging by the door.
For a moment, he thought he saw her there. Just a flicker. A shape. Eyes locked to his.
Then it was gone.
And still, he didn’t look away.
Wesley Sanders is a writer, educator, and Bronx native whose fiction explores themes of justice, identity, and inner-city survival. He holds a Master of Arts in Teaching and a BA from NYU, where he was awarded the Clyde Taylor Prize for Distinguished Work in African American and Africana Studies. His stories often center young Black protagonists navigating systems that fail them, blending gritty realism with emotional depth. When he's not teaching middle school English or coordinating community literary events, he’s working on his debut young adult novel.
