Just then, the bus jerks, and a shout erupts from the back row, sharp and panicked, as the laughter dies.Hartley braces with one hand on the cracked leather of the seat, his posture tightening like someone pulled a cord inside him.The relaxed coach is gone, and in his place is that man of steel and torque, eyes scanning outside for the source of the trouble.
Mr.Powell’s frown deepens as he coasts the bus onto the shoulder.“That didn’t sound good.”
Understatement of the year.
A cough of smoke sputters from the hood, and the whole vehicle shudders to a final, wheezing stop.Silence stretches, thick and uneasy, through the bus.
Hartley releases a long, controlled breath.“Everyone stay put.”His gaze flicks to me, sharp and assessing.“You okay?”
“I’m fine.What do you think it could be?”
“No clue yet.”He’s already moving, grabbing a flashlight strapped above the driver’s seat and heading for the door.
Cold night air rushes in as the seal of the door hisses open.Mr.Powell stays planted behind the wheel, features calm in a resigned this-always-happens-to-me sort of way.
I ease closer, sliding my hand into the back pocket of my jeans.“Please tell me you know something about buses besides how to drive them.”
“Uh… nope.”He leans down, digging for something beside his seat.“But there might be something in here.”
The bus driver lifts a binder like it’s the Holy Grail of bus repair as a chill skates down my spine.
Great.We’re stranded in the wilderness with a coach, a little over a dozen teenage boys, a binder, and a flashlight.What could possibly go wrong?
Mr.Powell flicks on the dim overhead light and squints down at an ancient black binder.Thick, dusty, and smelling faintly of mildew, the thing looks like it predates the moon landing, and there’s zero chance it includes a “download our app” section for roadside assistance.
I pull out my phone, but the bars are gone.Dead air.The signal out here is spotty at best, and right now, it’s non-existent.
The boys murmur behind me, restless energy bouncing off the bus walls, and I peer out the window.The road cuts through farmland that stretches into oblivion.Mountains on the horizon.No houses.No headlights.Just us, a broken-down tin can, and the Montana version of the void.
Ten minutes drag by, and Mr.Powell is still buried in yellowing pages like he’s parsing ancient scripture.
Meanwhile, Hartley is half-swallowed by the hood of the bus, his flashlight beam slicing the dark in quick, frustrated bursts.His muttered swear slips out into the open air, low, irritated, and entirely unbothered by whether the kids hear him.
Curiosity pricks at me like a rash.
I stand and pace the narrow aisle, knowing I should stay put.I should stay in the relative warmth of the cabin.I go outside anyway.
The cold hits instantly, sliding under my blazer and settling into my bones.The only light comes from the bus’s emergency flashers pulsing like a mechanical heartbeat and the narrow beam gripped in his hand.
“Any luck, Coach?”
He doesn’t glance my way, only grunts under the hood.“Working on it.”
Some of the boys mash their foreheads to the windows behind me, breath fogging the glass.He knows they’re watching, and the pride in his spine tightens a notch, swelling like a bruise that’s been hit.
He angles the flashlight downward.“Battery’s dead.Maybe alternator.Could be wiring.”
“So… no.”
His eyes flick toward me, one second, stormy, sharp, and radiating irritation.“You want to help?Know anything about engines?”
“No.But I know the five stages of denial when I see them.”
“Go back inside, Buchanan.”
I fold my arms, planting my boots firmly in the gravel beside him.“The boys are getting antsy.”
“I’ll handle it.”The stubbornness in his tone could power the bus better than the dead battery.