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.

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?'

She leans forward. 'You gave me a seat once. 1995. I was just visiting my grandmother. You were kind. She remembered that. Every winter, she took your bus because you were kind.' I pull over and stop driving.