My hands tightened on the wheel. Mick Reeves had been my best friend at the depot for fifteen years. He had driven this very bus until he died, three years ago, of a heart attack at the last stop on Terminus Road. I had scratched his initials into that frame myself the week of the funeral. I had never told anyone.

Claire said Mick was Noah’s father. Today was the anniversary, and Noah had not said a word at breakfast. I grabbed the radio, my voice shaking, and asked the depot to alert every driver. Then I looked at Claire and said, “I think I know where he is.” She stared at me. I turned the bus around, and I did not wait for the lights.