So, I have one app on my phone; Email.
The woman next to me on the bus, who I've subconsciously named Pythia, shifts, her shoulder pressing against mine for a moment before she pulls away with a subtle grimace.The feeling is mutual, babes. Bad luck is a communicable disease on this side of town, and Pythia definitely has it in spades.
The driver's voice crackles over the PA. “Sorry folks, it doesn’t look like we're going anywhere for a while.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, is this man glitching or something?I look at him through the rearview mirror again and watch him lower his forehead to the wheel as if the morning has finally broken him.
Enough.
I pull my faux Chloé Marcie onto my lap, stand, and edge into the aisle. Every shuffled foot and stray tote feels like a lifetime of permission slips I've waited for. Throughout my life, it was always someone else deciding when I was allowed to move or speak. Not today. If the nuns were right and the Devil is the one who always whispers “rebellion,” then fine;I'm fucking listening, Satan.I want that promotion. I want to have enough money to be in control of my life, and I’m not just going to sit on this bus and let that opportunity pass me by without at least trying.
When I reach the front of the bus, I rap on the scratched plexiglass of the driver's box. “Could you pop the door?”
The driver barely lifts his head. “Lady, we're stuck in gridlock.”
“We're parked,” I point out. “And so are all the cars around us.”
He gestures toward the CCTV above the door. “Cameras. If I open up, I could lose my job.”
I tap the glass again, harder this time, and fish out everything in my wallet; two fives, a single, and a fistful of nickels. I slide the bundle under the window. “It's all I have. Please, I can't be late for work. Not today.”
The scent of paper and metal does what empathy couldn't. He studies me, studies the money, pockets it with a heavy hand, and then sighs and pulls the release. The bus doors wheeze apart, and I bolt like my life depends on it.
My overworked black heels pound against the pavement as I run, each step a declaration:I will not be passed over for this promotion.I feel like I’m running from invisibility. Ever since I read my file, specifically the checked boxes: NO CONTACT, I have let those two words define me.
But something changed me on that bus. Maybe it was the combination of everyone else just sitting there and Cal’s passive-aggressive text. I don’t know. I feel different somehow. I am awake now, and I realize I have a choice. I am not my parents’ mistake. I’m not invisible.
It's not long before I discover what held us all up. A serious accident between three cars is sprawled across the road. Twisted metal, emergency vehicles, and police officers are all on the scene. I give the wreckage a wide berth, but find myself slowing, unable to look away as I get closer.
I know it's terrible to stare at someone else's misfortune. Basic human decency says to avert your eyes and respect their pain, but I can't. In moments like these, I always wonder if God really exists. Sister Agnes said doubt made me a temptress for the Devil, but if that’s true, the Devil has been ignoring me for years.
As I pass the accident, I notice two body bags on stretchers. Black cocoons that signal life's abrupt end. A common enough sight when you live in the poorer areas of the city. I look for any sign of a soul leaving their body or an angel in the background securing their way to Heaven. I see neither—just the overworked first responders. There’s not even a stray angel feather.
Once I'm past the emergency vehicles, I begin running again, and I reach the next bus stop just as a replacement vehicle pulls up.A small mercy in an unmerciful morning. I board and slam my transit card down with more force than necessary, making the reader beep twice.
The driver doesn't even glance up. Passengers running onto buses and slamming down their cards the way people used to hang up the phone on each other in old movies must happen all the time on his eight-hour shift.So who is the NPC here?Me or him? Or all of us who live like this, working so hard just to live hand-to-mouth existences?
I take a seat as the bus starts moving and carefully type a new message to Cal:
I still want to be considered for the promotion. On my way now.
“Please, please, please don't give it to anyone else,” I say while I hit send.
The bubble hangs on the screen. One grey check, delivered, and ignored. My pulse races while the second check refuses to appear.
No reply.
Shit.
When the replacement bus reaches my stop, I burst through the doors and run like I'm being pursued by everything I'm trying to escape; my lack of parents, my lack of friends, my lack of belonging. I’m running so fast it’s like I’m being chased by everything I’ve spent my life trying to outrun.
I sprint three blocks to the hotel's service alley. The two guards in dark uniforms barely get a breathless, “Good morning,” from me as I swipe my badge through the scanner. The two seconds it takes for the doors to open seem like an eternity. When the panel finally flashes green and the metal doors part, I run into a world of luxury most people never see.
I walk as quickly as I can until I reach the staff room, every step echoing with the same silent chant:
Please God, don't let me be too late.
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