A Nontraditional Easter Story
Caroline burrowed deeper into the corner of the last seat on the bus. “Invisible,” she whispered to herself. “Be invisible.”
The bus was silent, except for the hum of the engine that had been left running. No newspapers rustled. No cells rang. No passengers moved up and down the aisle. Up front, the driver lay slumped over the steering wheel, his right hand still wrapped around the door lever.
The absence of the normal buzz of activity left an empty vacuum that reached into Caroline’s lungs. Every breath she took seemed to get lost somewhere inside her body.
Why hadn’t she driven to work today? Because she didn’t want to pay ten dollars to park for a shift that only paid a hundred? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
“Who will switch?” The man standing in the front of the bus shouted again. Louder this time. More demanding.
Caroline dug her nails into the navy fabric of her scrub pants and refused to make eye contact. A psycho with a gun should be dirty, scruffy, seedy. Not clean-shaven, clean-cut, and dressed in a pressed navy suit. READ THE REST