The morning heat rose off the asphalt in shimmering waves, making the city blur at the edges like a dream refusing to take shape. Tim Watson adjusted the collar of his uniform and tapped the brakes gently, easing the city bus to a stop at the corner of 8th and Mason.
Another routine day, he told himself. Just one more shift driving through the downtown circuit.
But the moment the doors hissed open, he felt it—that subtle tug in his chest. A whisper of instinct, honed by years not only as a bus driver but also as a former police officer. He had long since retired from the badge, but some instincts never leave you. They sit beneath the skin, humming, waiting for the right moment.
The first passenger stepped aboard: a man, tall and wiry, with an angular face that carried little warmth. He moved too quickly, scanning the bus with eyes too sharp.
And then, behind him, came the child.
She shuffled up the steps like a shadow. Small. Silent. Nearly swallowed whole by a hoodie two sizes too big. Her movements were slow, hesitant—as if each step required permission. Her eyes didn’t meet Tim’s, nor anyone else’s. She seemed both there and not there, as if trying to disappear into herself.
