The Drifter
He was waiting by the bus stop at the edge of the forest.
Brow furrowed against the rain and fists clenched.
A drifter perhaps. There were many in these parts.
Did he know there was no bus?
There hadn’t been since it all happened.
The number 29 she used to take before the forest filled with police tape.
And then nobody wanted to catch the bus there again.
The route moved downtown with its shops and bakeries and chatter.
They never caught him.
Police blamed a drifter but they drift don’t they.
My eyes turned back to the bus stop scanning the dark grey cave with its long weeds that framed the edges.
A curl of smoke hung in the air.
He was gone.
