“I’m already involved.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
She sighed.
I could picture her standing in her apartment in another city, one hand on her forehead, worried sick that her stubborn mother was about to march into trouble with a bad back and a bus key.
“Mom,” she said softly, “people are crazy online.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s the problem.”
I hung up, put on my coat, and drove to the bus yard.
The sun wasn’t even fully up yet.
The sky had that pale gray winter look, like the whole town was holding its breath.
When I arrived, three drivers were already standing near the coffee machine, whispering.
They stopped when I walked in.
That told me everything.
Our route supervisor, Mr. Harlan, opened his office door and said my name in the careful way people do when they already know something has gone sideways.
