and you wave the idling driver on. Because enough with other voices challenging you, questioning you … and besides, this is not, in fact, your stop. You are certain of it. The driver muttershrugs and shuts the door, and the bus chuggles forward once more. An overhead light trembles on, and now you can see the two men more clearly. They seem to relax: each reaches into a satchel, each pulls out a newspaper, snaps it open and begins reading.
Settle back into your seat, again accepting this journey you’re on. The bus will lead you somewhere. The nextnext of the endless nexts. You don’t have to be in control—control is just an illusion, after all, your father said so all those years ago, or maybe you heard it in a shitty movie. Hard to say, it’s been a long day. You woke up hours ago with good intentions or at least a lot of anxious energy, ants in your pants, bee in your bonnet, a nettle in your kettle, trying to get away from all your yesterdays. But there is no getting away, of course; even now, the same voice is withing you, the mean little homunculus inside your computer skull, pushing your keys, pulling your levers, muttering along like a bus driver now here in this moonlit night.
As the bus’s dark moony sway begins to rock you to sleep, lights appear, two pairs of headlights in the middle of the road. The bus slows. The two men fold their newspapers and peer forward. The bus stops. The two men gather their satchels, stand and stroll to the front, passing you by. Neither glances your way. They are in well-fit pinstripe suits, their shoes shined darker than even the darkness. Each of their satchels has a price tag dangling from it.
Each makes a slow show of tipping the bus driver, pausing, reaching into back pocket, squinting into billfold, going through one bill after the next before passing the chosen one to the bus driver, who also makes a show of it, waving them off, No, no, I can’t, before finally relenting, Thank you, thank you kindly, tipping his cap. In turn, each man steps off. One goes to one car. The other, the other. From the window, you can hear the idling of two powerful engines, can see steam wisping from the exhaust pipes.
When the bus river turns to you, scratching his head, you nearly cry out: it is the Captain.
He recognizes you, too, lowering his voice with urgency. “Go on!” he hisspers. “What are you waiting for? You need to follow him if you want to save her. She doesn’t have a lot of time. Find Grimm Road,” he says. “Find the palace. Go!”
You stare at him, astonished.
“This is it!” he cries. “Follow him and he’ll lead you to her. He always does. Go!”
You nod and rise, rushing toward the door. As you pass the Captain, he sees the enormous question on your face. “How can you not know who she is?” he asks. “Are you really asking me this? Your sister, fool! Go, go now!”
You step off the bus just as the two cars pull in opposite directions, each down an unlit road. You turn to hail the Captain, but it’s too late; the bus is gone. You are alone again, again caught in a strange place, set once more on a path brimming with meanings you don’t understand.
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