The Last Bus Home

There are two kinds of last bus. The one that gets you home, and the one Sadie caught.

Sadie knows every bus time in the city — the 14, the cross-town 9, every transfer and backup route. Her mom calls her the little dispatcher. She does not miss buses. So the night she finally does, and the only ride left is the 11:40, she gets on, because a warm bright bus beats a cold empty corner at midnight.

The bus is warm. It's bright. It's right on time. And it will not stop at her stop — not this loop, not the next one, not ever. It just runs the same dark street around and around, and the little orange sign over the driver, the one that's supposed to count down to your stop, counts the wrong way instead.

The other passengers stopped trying to get off a long time ago. A man forever about to call his wife on a phone that died years back. A lady who got on for one stop, nine years ago. A boy stuck on the first problem of his homework since before Sadie was born. Stay too long and you start to fade into your seat — and you forget there was ever a stop with your name on it.

And Sadie's funny friend Quincy, who's been joking the whole ride to keep them both calm, is starting to fall asleep.

There's one way off this bus. Sadie gets one try. She has to be sure.