Bernadette was on the Greyhound, somewhere east of Medicine Hat. It was dark outside and the bus was quiet. Someone a few rows behind her lit up a smoke; its aroma drifted toward Bernadette and made her long for a cigarette of her own. The old lady next to her was sleeping, her head resting on Bernadette’s shoulder.
Earlier in the evening, when she’d said goodbye, Frankie began to cry. Bernadette promised that she would write lots of letters. Jimmy stood behind Frankie, pulling at his mouth. He passed Bernadette fifty bucks and told her to make it last. What was she going to spend money on anyways? The most she could stomach was toast, crackers and weak tea.
The smoker behind her nearly coughed up a lung, a wet and wheezy expectoration that caused everyone around Bernadette to shift pos
