you are here
The Last Bus on Marrow Street
dramaEveryone6 contributors · 2 paragraphs deep
Thirty-one winters I've driven the 9:40 down Marrow Street. Tonight's my first of seven last nights. The city's killing this route. Killing the job. Sleet hammers the windshield. At Elm and Third, I see her—old woman in a red coat, running, hand out. I'm already past her. She stands there soaked, watching the bus fade into dark.
I pull up at the next light. Turn around? For what? But I do. U-turn. I drive back to Elm and Third. She's still there. Waiting. Her hand doesn't go up. Her eyes just... watch. She knows I came back.
↔ version 1 of 3 of this paragraph — hover its sides to flip. The card below is what happens next.
What happens next?
3 ways forwardVote share across the top 3 branches
A possible continuation
I open the door. She gets on slowly. Wet. Cold. Sits right behind me. For a few blocks, nothing. Then: 'You don't remember me.' Not a question. I check the mirror. 'Should I?'
LW
Lin Wei
7 votes · future 1 of 3