She stumbles into her seat breathless, the empty bus drawing out an exhalation. Rumbling down darkened streets, she clutches the box Mr. Walker offered at the end of her shift and surrenders to the day’s heaviness.
Behind her eyes are the beginnings: a flood of false promises, suitcases packed then unpacked, the frayed tether of her father’s voice carrying across oceans then cutting out, and always the anxiety of scarcity.
Restless, she counts the quiet minutes of night unfolding into the first measures of morning. Reaching into the box, she holds a glimmer of hope: an N-95 mask, its straps in search of bruised ears, a bulwark against the forbidden world.
