you are here
The Last Bus on Marrow Street
dramaEveryone6 contributors · 4 paragraphs deep
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.
↔ version 1 of 2 of this paragraph — hover its sides to flip. The card below is what happens next.
What happens next?
0 ways forwardVote share across the top 0 branches
No futures yet — be the one who decides what happens next.