The fluorescent lights of the Greyhound station buzzed like trapped flies. Seventeen-year-old Maya clutched her duffel bag, counting the minutes until the 10:15 PM departure. Two more hours, and she’d be home. Her little brother’s birthday party waited—balloons, lopsided cake, his gap-toothed smile.
She boarded the nearly empty bus, choosing a seat near the back. A few rows ahead, a man in a worn jacket hunched against the window. Another slept across two seats. Maya plugged in her earbuds, let her head fall against the vibrating glass, and watched the city dissolve into highway darkness.
That was the last moment she felt safe.
