The Bus
Morning traffic hides more than it carries.
Stepping onto the street from my apartment, I tucked my hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt. Typical early September day, chilly to start but by the afternoon, we’d all be back to short sleeves.
My usual walk to the studio was once again accompanied by traffic thick with back-to-school congestion. The chatter of perky children was sometimes cute, but I could do without the exhaust belching from the buses.
I ducked into The Village Cup for a coffee.
“Rowan!” Jerry called, smiling, his thick grey eyebrows lifting in surprise. “We’ve missed you, stranger!”
I smiled back, stepping up to the counter. “Thanks, Jerry. But it’s only been like a week.”
“Well, now we know that’s just too long.” He grinned. “So, the usual?”
“Yes,” I said. “That would be great, thanks.”
He turned to the row of decanters, poured carefully, then set the cup on the counter. I reached for my wallet, but he swung up a calloused hand.
“Nah, no no no. This one’s on the house, kid. Call it a welcome back, or a bribe to stay. Whichever one offends you less.”
I laughed, taking the coffee. “Thanks. That’s very kind. But- ” my eyes slid toward the pastry case. “I think today is a muffin kind of day.”
“Oh, is that so?” Jerry arched a brow. “Well, then that’s on the house too. Which kind?”
“Whichever tastes best with exhaust,” I said, winking.
He barked out a laugh and slid a blueberry muffin into a bag. “Blueberry,” he said. “Bran already tastes like exhaust, but don’t tell Linda. It’s her mother’s recipe.”
I thanked him again and headed back out. A couple more blocks and I’d be at the studio.
At the next intersection I stood beside a man, waiting. The light changed, bright green figure glowing, and we stepped into the crosswalk together.
I gazed ahead, hustling forward as usual, when a yellow blur roared from the left. A briefcase slammed against my abdomen, shoving me back. My coffee sloshed out the hole in the lid, scalding my thumb.
The bus lurched to a stop, half in the crosswalk. Curious faces pressed to the windows, wide-eyed, pointing, filming.
“Damnit!” I hissed, shaking my hand.
The man beside me cringed. “Sorry, I saw the bus coming and- ”
“It’s fine,” I said, trying for a smile. “Thank you, I didn’t see it at all.”
Over his shoulder I watched the bus crawl forward, each window sliding past like frames of an old film. Smiling kids, their faces snapshots of stories they’d tell later.
All except one. Near the back, a pale face, plaid shirt. Two small hands pressed a paper to the glass.
Numbers.
I fumbled out my phone, zoomed in, snapped the picture just as the bus turned the corner.
“Hey,” the man said, “look, if you’re okay, I have to go.”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I muttered. “But did you see that kid with the- ”
“Sorry!” he called, already halfway across the street.
I crossed quickly, pulling up the photo as soon as I reached the other side. Seven numbers. Just seven. I stuffed the phone back in my pocket and kept walking.
At the studio Amy was already at her desk. She spun around, smiling. “Happy Tuesday! Oh, and Mel left half her files on my desk for you.”
“Fantastic.” I dropped into my chair. “On the way here a bus almost hit me.”
Amy’s brow wrinkled.
“I’m fine,” I said. “But there was a kid on the bus holding up a paper with numbers. Seven of them.”
I rolled over and held the phone up to her face. “See?”
She squinted. “Yeah, I see them. And the kid looks like a vampire.”
“Right?” I said. “So it’s obviously a phone number. What else could it be?”
Amy raised an eyebrow. “Oh, of course. Because hostages always get paper, markers, and the chance to press their captor’s phone number against a school bus window.”
I opened my mouth, shut it again. She had me.
“Call the police,” she said flatly.
I rolled my eyes and stood. “Fine. I’ll go outside.”
On the fire escape landing, I jabbed the numbers from the picture into my phone.
I would call the police, right after I called this number. If it was even a number to call.
It rang once.
Silence.
Then a recorded message, tinny with static:
“Thank you for calling… [garbled crackle] …please hold.”
Children’s laughter threaded faintly through the background, too far away to be part of the recording.
The message repeated once and the line went dead.
➡️ Continue to Part II Routine Calls
What struck me here is the balance: the story spends just long enough in the ordinary (coffee, muffins, banter with Jerry) that when the bus nearly hits, it feels like the floor drops out from under both the narrator and the reader. The pacing of that shift is the hook.
Then the image of the child in the window - numbers scrawled, pressed to the glass - doesn’t just add mystery, it reframes the whole scene. Suddenly every detail we just read (traffic, chatter, even the exhaust) feels like cover for something hidden in plain sight. And the final phone call, with laughter threading through static, is exactly the kind of ending that leaves you checking over your shoulder. Loved it!
This read like stepping into an ordinary morning and watching it twist into something uncanny. The small, familiar details like the coffee shop banter, the blueberry muffin joke, make the moment with the bus and the child’s note hit even harder. It’s such an effective way to show how the surreal can intrude on the everyday. I was right there with the narrator, feeling the jolt, the scalding coffee, and the unease of those seven numbers. Great storytelling!