Window #18

The darkness pushes beyond the bounds of the school bus. We huddle together in the center of the aisle. The spiky-haired boy comes through the window carrying a great bubble wand, or at least a few of us will swear to this. We can’t see him, though we can almost hear his pocket chain rattle, almost feel the ultra-hold gel in his hair. Some say it’s nothing but the wind or, perhaps, the Bus Driver making his final tour of the bus before calling it a night. But we know it’s him. It has to be him. He enters through the window and straddles the seats above us, unsheathing his mighty bubble wand and plunging it into the watery juices we’ve become. He raises the wand slowly to his face, careful not to let any of the viscous liquid drip, and then, ever so gently, he blows.