Chapter 2

And, much like yesterday, the bus is late. I stand at the stop, shifting my weight impatiently, and mutter under my breath, “I hate this transit system.” It’s never on time. Not once has it arrived when it claims it will, and it’s been this way for as long as I’ve been part of the workforce. A cruel constant in a life that seems full of them.

I hate my job. The monotony of it, the endless stream of tedious, meaningless tasks that fail to spark even the faintest sense of accomplishment. The people I work with? No better. Conversations are shallow, alliances fleeting. The pay barely keeps my head above water, even with Lip’s help, and management makes sure I’m reminded, day after day, just how replaceable they think I am.

Lip was right, though. If I’m late this time, there’s no more warnings—just a write-up, and maybe worse. I need this job. As miserable as it is, it keeps me afloat, tied to the meager stability I’ve built. But the thought of trudging through another day, the same cycle repeating endlessly, feels like a punishment all its own.

As I let out a frustrated sigh, the wind shifts, carrying with it a voice so soft and faint it could have been part of the breeze. “Please stop doing this.”

The words freeze me in place. My breath catches as I whirl around, searching for the source. The bus stop is empty, just me and my belongings under the pale morning light. Not a soul in sight.

I stand there, heart pounding, trying to convince myself it was nothing—a trick of the wind or my imagination playing games after a restless night. But the voice lingers, its delicate plea echoing in the corners of my mind.

At long last, the bus arrives, dragging itself into view like a reluctant participant in the morning's misery. The driver is the same as always—a man whose expression is an enigma of nothingness. Neither happy nor sad, angry nor glad, he stares ahead with a vacancy that makes me wonder if he’s even thinking at all, or if he’s just running on autopilot like the machine he commands.

Oaaaaaaaaowwwwwww

The doors groan open with an audacious creak, the sound grating against my already frayed nerves. I pause for a moment, reluctant, staring at the cold, steel frame of the bus. It feels less like a vehicle and more like a hearse, ready to ferry me to the graveyard of another unremarkable day.

But I carry on. There’s no other choice.