Bussin

Forty kids fit in a school bus. It can hold 90. But today, there are just 40.

Every kid crowds to look out the window. They’re whisked from one end of suburbia to the next. There’s a man in the middle of town watering his lawn by hand. His garden hose reaches from one end of the property to the other. He disappears from view as the bus moves on.

The bus stops at a light. The kids look out either side. Their faces press against the window glass. Three SUVs on either side of them. The first one, white, the middle one, black, the last one, white.

The light turns green. A raven flies overhead. It banks in the blue, sunny sky. The bus pulls forward into the intersection. The SUVs flank the bus before turning left and right respectively.

The bus arrives at school. Forty children file out in a single file line. The bus driver looks at the students. What will they do? he wonders. What will they become?

He’ll never know. Hopefully.