It was an overcast California morning, the kind that carries an unshakable sense of unease. My one-year-old son, Jamie, had been battling a fever through the night, and I was determined to get him to the doctor as quickly as possible. Since my wife passed during childbirth, every day as a single father had been a mix of heartbreak and determination, and this day was no different.
Jamie was snug in his stroller, wrapped in layers to guard against the cool, damp air. His soft breaths fogged the plastic cover as we waited for the bus. When it finally arrived, I struggled to haul the stroller up the steps, apologizing to the driver for the delay. The bus was crowded, and the hum of morning commuters filled the air.
At the next stop, an older woman boarded. She was striking, with flowing skirts and jingling bangles that caught the dim morning light. She hesitated at the fare box, her weathered hands rummaging through an overstuffed purse. “I don’t have enough for the fare,” she murmured, her voice tinged with embarrassment.
The bus driver, already irritated, snapped, “This isn’t a free ride. Either pay or get off.”
Her face flushed as she looked around the bus, but no one moved. Before I could second-guess myself, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a few crumpled bills. “I’ve got it,” I said
She turned to me, her dark eyes locking onto mine. They were deep, almost unnervingly so. “Thank you,” she said softly and shuffled toward the back of the bus.
