“Gate 7, westbound."
The speaker crackled. People shuffled. The bus sighed like an old animal.
Freya kept her hood up and her mask high. She held a paper ticket and a backpack that wasn't hers. Pain sat in her bones and watched.
“Boarding?" the driver asked, glancing at her hood.
She nodded. “Yes."
He tore the stub. “Long ride."
“I know."
She climbed the steps. The bus smelled like wet wool and chips. A boy kicked the seat in front of him; a woman hummed under her breath; a man argued softly with someone on the phone about rent and bad luck.
Freya slid into a window seat. The glass held the station in a gray reflection. Her phone buzzed again with a number she didn't save. She shut it off.
Two seats back, a girl said to her boyfriend, “Someday we'll laugh about this."
“Someday,"
