Most of 1-A is asleep. Heads lolling against windows, slumped across laps, mouths slightly open. The gentle chaos of twenty teenagers contained in metal and glass, softened by the late hour.

Up front, the driver takes a long sip from a thermos. He taps the wheel once, twice, settling deeper into his seat.

The bus curves slightly, leaving the city proper behind. The lights outside grow sparser. Darker. The road stretches ahead, empty and straight.

Somewhere in the back, someone shifts in their sleep. A quiet murmur. A yawn swallowed by the engine's rumble.

Twelve forty-two. One minute passes. Another.

Then — without warning — the bus does not slow.