Last Monday, a little boy stayed seated on my bus even after we had reached his stop. And when I understood why, I felt a knot in my throat.
I’ve been driving the school bus route for nineteen years.
Every morning, I take the kids to school.
Every afternoon, I bring them home.
Always the same streets. The same roundabouts. The same crosswalks that stay wet in winter. The same buildings. The same half-closed shutters.
Eventually, you learn everything by heart.
And you learn the children, too.
Not as if they were your own, of course.
But you know who falls asleep against the window. Who runs onto the bus with their backpack half-open. Who always sits in the back. Who stays quiet for no reason, and who stays quiet because something is wrong.
I knew Dani well.
Eleven years old. Skinny. Almost always wearing a well-worn green hoodie. A backpack far too big for his small frame. He always sat somewhere around the middle, next to the window.
He never caused trouble.
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