Bus
My father doesn’t understand why I get so mad when he doesn’t come to pick me up after hurling practice. It’s because I don’t want to ride on the bus so late. I get scared. Sometimes a man gets on, the same age as my father, with a suit and a briefcase. He sits upstairs, always in a seat next to a girl my age who’s going home alone, just like me. He says something to her, she laughs, he shows her something inside the briefcase, and then they both get off, in silence, at the next stop.
Whenever a girl goes with him, I never see her again, but that wouldn’t even scare me so much if it weren’t for the way they go after him with those blank, white eyes.
