I made coffee.
I checked my phone, which was my first mistake.
Mrs. Bell’s post was still up.
But now there was another post.
This one from a fake-looking account.
No profile picture.
No real name.
Just a sentence.
“That bus driver should mind her own business before she causes trouble for people.”
I stared at it.
My coffee went cold.
It could have been anyone.
A teenager.
A bored adult.
A troll.
Or the man in the sedan.
That is the cruelty of online fear.
It does not need proof to move into your house.
It just needs possibility.
At the bus yard, Silas’s truck was gone.
I asked one of the mechanics if he had already left.
The mechanic looked uncomfortable.
“He’s been pulled off neighborhood routes.”
My chest tightened.
“What?”
“Temporary.”
“Because of the photo?”
He shrugged.
“Complaints.”
There was that word again.
Complaints.
