THE LAST TICKET HOME TO YESTERDAY

The steam grew thicker, seeping through the floorboards with the bitter smell of burning antifreeze. The dashboard temperature gauge pegged into the bright red zone, an alarm buzzer sounding a high-pitched, steady whine across the empty rows of vinyl seats.

""The bus is crying,"" Lily murmured, clinging to the metal support pole beside the farebox.

""Engine's just tired, Lily. We have to make a pit stop,"" Thomas said, flipping the switch to silence the alarm. He knew the engine would seize completely within three miles. They were out of the immediate trap, but stranded in the low-lying timberland between counties.

He guided the dying vehicle down an unmarked gravel lane he had known for thirty years. Tucked into a dense canopy of pine trees stood an old municipal depot and scrap yard, closed down a decade ago when the county centralized transit operations. In the center of the clearing sat a corrugated steel barn with a dim yellow light glowing above the service bay.

Thomas rolled the bus into the shadow of the rusted hangar just as the engine gave a final, violent shudder and died completely. The sudden silence was suffocating, punctuated only by the pinging of hot metal and the drumming of rain on the roof.

He unbuckled Lily and lifted her down the steps. The air outside was freezing. He wrapped her tightly in the spare woolen blanket from his emergency locker.

""Stay right beside me,"" he whispered.

He approached the side door of the barn, raising his heavy flashlight to knock three times, pausing, then knocking twice. It was an old maintenance code from his early days on the line.

The door creaked open an inch. Behind it, a pair of suspicious, cataract-clouded eyes peered out, illuminated by the orange ember of a hand-rolled cigarette.