toward the mountains, the gears of the Greyhound kicking back and forth.
I T WAS DARK WHEN WE DROVE INTO D ENVER , but it didn’t matter, because the mountains had so much snow on them that it seemed like they were glowing when they exploded in the distance, so I took a photo of the Rockies out the window even though I didn’t think it would turn out. It was late, eleven or so, but I nudged Emmy awake to see the backdrop of the snowy peaks as I-70 carved a path into the city.
“Jesus,” she said, “is that for real?”
“You got it,” I said. “The Rocky Mountains, full on.” And we pressed our noses up to the window and leaned our foreheads against the glass.
Marni and Jonah’s trip ended in Denver, and Emmy offered to grab some snacks and sodas from the terminal when we stopped so I could stay on the bus, and I watched as Marni packed up all their toys and books and empty food wrappers.
“Put your coat on, muffin,” Marni said to Jonah. “Looks cold as an icebox out there.”
Jonah told me I could keep his red car for when I got sad again.
“I don’t know the story,” Marni said, eyeing my belly. “But sometimes the decisions we don’t make for ourselves are the decisions we need the most.” She smiled. “And from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ll be a wonderful mother,” Marni said, and then we showed Jonah how to use the camera so he could take a photo of Marni and me before they got off the bus and headed toward an old minivan waiting for them in the parking lot.
When we left Denver for Salt Lake City, where our next transfer fell, Emmy ate another Ambien, and I must have nodded off too, because when I woke we were parked in the lot outside the Rock Springs, Wyoming, terminal. There was a man on the other side of the aisle staring so hard across the space between us that his eyes felt like fingers poking me awake. In his lap he clutched an old army-green sac—not a duffel or a backpack but a lumpy, stained bag with a black cord tied in a knot at the top. I could smell whiskey and sweat, stale bacon grease and dampness, as he leaned over toward me. He was older—older than Johnny Drinko, older than Simon, too—and his face was pitted and pocked with acne scars, his voice jumbled and slurred when he narrowed his eyes at me and said, “Hey, girl.”
I looked at Emmy, who was heavy with sleep, and checked the floor to make sure our purses and backpacks were still there.
“Hey, girl,” he said again, “you too young to be traveling alone.”
I elbowed Emmy, but she didn’t budge, and all aroundus the riders were sleeping; the ones who were awake were stretching their legs outside near the snow banks in the parking lot or getting snacks in the terminal. Below my window a woman in a black ski cap and a puffy white coat smoked a cigarette. Next to her the bus driver talked on a cell phone. I turned to look in the back of the bus for Nelson, but he was gone.
“Hey, girl,” he said again, but then I felt him on me, his hand squeezing my knee as I looked down at his knuckles, which were covered in wiry black hair.
Maybe he was harmless. Maybe he thought I was someone he knew, or maybe he wasn’t really touching me at all and I was stuck inside one of those nightmares I couldn’t make myself wake up from. But then he was there again, pressing his thumb into my thigh as he moved his hand up my leg, his body leaning closer and his fingers like spiders crawling across me.
“Little girls need chaperones,” he said.
I knocked his hand off, and he slipped and tumbled into the aisle. And that woke Emmy up, the sound of body hitting rubber floor, but no matter how much braver and stronger than me I believed she was, she couldn’t stop him when he hissed, “Teenage whore.”
He scrambled to his feet and hovered above us, looking.
Emmy said, “What the hell?” and rose to stand, but it was too late. He spit at me, a white and bubbled glob that landed on my shoulder. And all the
I T WAS DARK WHEN WE DROVE INTO D ENVER , but it didn’t matter, because the mountains had so much snow on them that it seemed like they were glowing when they exploded in the distance, so I took a photo of the Rockies out the window even though I didn’t think it would turn out. It was late, eleven or so, but I nudged Emmy awake to see the backdrop of the snowy peaks as I-70 carved a path into the city.
“Jesus,” she said, “is that for real?”
“You got it,” I said. “The Rocky Mountains, full on.” And we pressed our noses up to the window and leaned our foreheads against the glass.
Marni and Jonah’s trip ended in Denver, and Emmy offered to grab some snacks and sodas from the terminal when we stopped so I could stay on the bus, and I watched as Marni packed up all their toys and books and empty food wrappers.
“Put your coat on, muffin,” Marni said to Jonah. “Looks cold as an icebox out there.”
Jonah told me I could keep his red car for when I got sad again.
“I don’t know the story,” Marni said, eyeing my belly. “But sometimes the decisions we don’t make for ourselves are the decisions we need the most.” She smiled. “And from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ll be a wonderful mother,” Marni said, and then we showed Jonah how to use the camera so he could take a photo of Marni and me before they got off the bus and headed toward an old minivan waiting for them in the parking lot.
When we left Denver for Salt Lake City, where our next transfer fell, Emmy ate another Ambien, and I must have nodded off too, because when I woke we were parked in the lot outside the Rock Springs, Wyoming, terminal. There was a man on the other side of the aisle staring so hard across the space between us that his eyes felt like fingers poking me awake. In his lap he clutched an old army-green sac—not a duffel or a backpack but a lumpy, stained bag with a black cord tied in a knot at the top. I could smell whiskey and sweat, stale bacon grease and dampness, as he leaned over toward me. He was older—older than Johnny Drinko, older than Simon, too—and his face was pitted and pocked with acne scars, his voice jumbled and slurred when he narrowed his eyes at me and said, “Hey, girl.”
I looked at Emmy, who was heavy with sleep, and checked the floor to make sure our purses and backpacks were still there.
“Hey, girl,” he said again, “you too young to be traveling alone.”
I elbowed Emmy, but she didn’t budge, and all aroundus the riders were sleeping; the ones who were awake were stretching their legs outside near the snow banks in the parking lot or getting snacks in the terminal. Below my window a woman in a black ski cap and a puffy white coat smoked a cigarette. Next to her the bus driver talked on a cell phone. I turned to look in the back of the bus for Nelson, but he was gone.
“Hey, girl,” he said again, but then I felt him on me, his hand squeezing my knee as I looked down at his knuckles, which were covered in wiry black hair.
Maybe he was harmless. Maybe he thought I was someone he knew, or maybe he wasn’t really touching me at all and I was stuck inside one of those nightmares I couldn’t make myself wake up from. But then he was there again, pressing his thumb into my thigh as he moved his hand up my leg, his body leaning closer and his fingers like spiders crawling across me.
“Little girls need chaperones,” he said.
I knocked his hand off, and he slipped and tumbled into the aisle. And that woke Emmy up, the sound of body hitting rubber floor, but no matter how much braver and stronger than me I believed she was, she couldn’t stop him when he hissed, “Teenage whore.”
He scrambled to his feet and hovered above us, looking.
Emmy said, “What the hell?” and rose to stand, but it was too late. He spit at me, a white and bubbled glob that landed on my shoulder. And all the
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