That morning was the kind of cold that seeps into your bones. Frost glazed the windows, and my breath turned to mist before I even opened the bus door. But the thing that stopped me wasn’t the weather — it was the sound of someone quietly crying in the back.
My name’s Gerald. I’ve been driving a school bus in our little Midwestern town for over fifteen years. It’s not glamorous work, but it’s honest — and those kids make every freezing morning worth it. They’re loud, funny, and full of life. But that day… one of them broke my heart.
After the morning drop-offs, when the bus was finally quiet, I heard soft sobs from the back. I walked down the aisle and found a boy — maybe seven or eight — huddled against the window, trying to stay warm. His hands were tucked inside his sleeves, his backpack untouched at his feet.
“Hey, buddy,” I said gently. “You okay?”
He sniffled. “I’m just cold.”
When he showed me his hands, my heart sank — his little fingers were blue and cracked from the cold. I took off my gloves and slipped them over his hands. “Here,” I said. “Keep these for now.”
“I’m not supposed to take things,” he whispered.
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