Nathaniel King Crowe was aboard the bus: a bright-metallic yellow behemoth, booming and bellowing, its dirtied sun-rayed panes glinting down at the heavy eyes of scattered bystanders the assorted, fragrant type youd only get very early in the morning and scattering them a little more. He found himself, almost wraithlike, on the bus, standing there, lunging one-handed for the rustic pole inches above him. More than anything else, Nathan liked the feel of cold steel and cylinders rubbing against his sweaty palm. A few other hands perched, lurched and bunched up beside his.
He made a face.
Like any other day, Nathan mused to himself, he had not gone to the bus stop today; much like, as he surmised deeper, in the way that Mom had not woken him up, the acute tinge of bedridden blankets and wispy dreams slowly uncoiling about him; or much in the way that he had not pushed down half-a-dozen strips of bacon down his throat, and, how, af