Public transportation is anything but luxurious. The man behind me is sleeping with his face pressed against the window, the glass fogging from his heavy breathing. A woman is changing a baby in the front seat. She drops a wipe with a brown smear on it and doesn’t notice. I look away. I just have to endure it for a few hours, and then I’ll be getting off the bus and heading into a new life. Whatever problems I’m leaving in the city, my father can deal with them.
The driver—a middle-aged woman with a bald spot and two silver front teeth—pulls the doors shut and begins pulling away from the station before suddenly slamming on her brakes. The doors open and a man runs up the steps of the bus. He has a black hood on despite the heat and doesn’t wave to the driver in apology for being late. He
