The Last Bus

Hanna took the eleven-fifteen bus home from town every Friday. It was the last bus of the night, on Route 14, between the town of Helmsford and the village of Vaersholm. The route was forty-eight minutes long. The bus had eleven stops. Hanna got on at stop two. She got off at stop nine. Most Friday nights, the bus had between three and six passengers. Hanna had — over a year of taking it — got to know the regulars by sight. The man with the tan briefcase who always got off at stop four. The woman with the small dog in a basket who got off at stop six. The two teenagers in matching tracksuits who got off at stop seven. The old woman who knitted at stop eight. For the last six weeks, there had been a new passenger. He got on at the same stop as Hanna — stop two, in town. He sat at the back. He wore a dark coat and a soft cap. He was, Hanna thought, around forty. He had a thin face and tired eyes. He read a paperback. He did not look at his phone. He did not look out of the window. He did not, ever, get off. Hanna had noticed this on the third Friday. The man had, on her first two Fridays of seeing him, simply been *there.* On the third, she had — for no particular reason — looked back as she got off at stop nine. She had seen him still in his seat, paperback open, settled in for the rest of the route. She had thought: *odd. He must live in the village past mine. Or in one