The Night the Wheels on the Bus Stopped Going Round

He turned off the lights. My heart—almost audible—frantic inside my chest.

I was twenty. He was old enough to be my father. Sitting behind him had been a decision of safety. Late evening approached when a hand-full of people boarded a Greyhound bus. The majority made their way to the middle and back of the bus.

Vacationing at the beach with my dad and family. We had driven down the prior Saturday. My dad decided to extend his trip, though I was leaving a few days later in route to Africa for six weeks of missions.

I went with my father to the bus station. “It will be fine.” he assured me. “People take the bus all the time.”

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