Finally the bus pulls up at the stop, over an hour late. I hear the doors open with a whoosh of air and the wheels hiss and screech as they pull to a stop.
I take one last look around at the covered waiting area and think to myself, This could be the last time I ever see my home again.
Then I choke down the tears that start forming and remind myself, You have no home to go too, silly girl.
And so, with a final sigh, I climb on.
Most of the seats are full with people--if you could even call them all people, which really you couldn't--laughing and talking with eachother like they're all best friends. Of course, they probably all have their own stories and troubles, but I don't know them. I scoot past them wordlessly and find a seat by myself near the back.
Huddling against the window, I fish around in my backpack and pull out a brand-new notebook, the last present Mama ever gave me. I trace the silver script on the cover with my fingers, silently spelling out my name, Isa. My name is the only thing that I really know is mine.
Flipping the notebook open to the first blank page, I pick up my pencil and am about to make a mark on the paper when I see someone standing in the aisle next to me.
"Excuse me," the person says. "But you are in my seat."