The spiky-haired boy appears down the path through the green belt just as the bus pulls away. He runs, papers flying from his backpack. The Bus Driver slows down enough to tease the boy, who reaches out a hand toward the door. The boy wriggles his fingers into the rubberized crack between the folding door and the metal frame, tries to pull himself to the step. “Watch me find out whether this fellow is god or mortal,” the Bus Driver cries. And then He floors it. The spiky-haired boy loses his grip. He slips into the distance, stands too stunned to move. We are sure it is the end. The snow falls heavy, rising about him, covering his black army boots. But then he adjusts his backpack and breaks into a run. None of us thought he could move this fast, especially with the heavy chains attached to his belt.

We sit in the front seat as he runs alongside, slipping in the snow and slush as he fights to keep up. We think about opening our window, reaching out to him as they do in the movies, but we are afraid. It’s then the boy’s pants start to fall. He should have known better than to run beltless like that, with pants hanging halfway down his butt. We try to ignore the tinge of disappointment that rises in our throats, bloats our faces. He looked so strong, like a Nordic skier gliding on those big boots, an Olympian. If he’s to have any chance at all, we must reach out to him, at least beckon him on. But we do nothing, tell ourselves it’s too cold to open a window, the snow will fly in.

It’s then the boy’s feet leave the ground. We don’t know how he does it. He’s still moving his legs as if he’s running with all his might, except he’s flying along next to the bus. He grabs hold of the door, and we think he will try to break in, perhaps to take revenge on the Bus Driver. We’re not sure we like this at all. It was better when he needed our help. Once again, he slips his fingers into the crack in the door. Those in the front move toward the back of the bus. But then he raises his other hand, points it into the wind, moving it up and down as if riding the waves. We smile. He sees our smile and starts making shapes with his free hand: first a dog’s head, then a frog, a butterfly. We can’t help but laugh. Then, just as quickly, he lets go, soaring in the air above us. We turn to each other and scream in delight. By the time we remember to look up again, he is a speck against the gray. We open the windows now, stick our heads out. He is gone. Lost in the falling snow.