The life of a school bus driver is measured in minutes and miles, governed by the rhythmic swing of a stop-arm and the chaotic energy of youth. I am Gerald, and for fifteen years I have been the silent sentinel of a small town’s morning routine. To many, I am just a fixture of the commute—the man behind the wheel of a creaky yellow beast that sighs and groans with every gear shift. But to me, the job has always been about more than navigation. It is about stewardship. Every morning, long before the sun breaks through the frost-laden horizon, I am there, warming up the engine and shaking the chill from the vinyl seats. My job is to ensure that the thirty-odd souls who board my bus feel safe, even if the world outside is bitter and unforgiving.
Last Tuesday, the weather was particularly malicious. It was the kind of cold that seems to have physical weight, a biting frost that seeps through layers of wool and settles into the marrow of your bones. As the kids piled on, their breath blooming in the air like small, ephemeral ghosts, I tried to keep the mood light. I’ve learned that a bus driver’s attitude can shape a child’s entire day. I teased little Marcy about her pigtails and traded playful barbs with the older kids, all while the ancient heater under my seat rattled in a desperate attempt to fend off the winter.
The morning route proceeded with its usual symphony of bickering siblings and whispered secrets. It wasn’t until the final drop-off at the elementary school that the rhythm of my day faltered. Following my ironclad rule of “no child left behind,” I walked the aisle to check for forgotten lunchboxes or stray mittens. Halfway down, the silence of the empty bus was punctured by a sound that made my heart stutter—a thin, jagged sob from the very last row.
Tucked into the corner, nearly invisible against the frosted window, was a boy named Aiden. He was seven, perhaps eight, curled into a ball, his thin nylon jacket offering about as much protection as a paper bag. His eyes were fixed on his feet as if trying to disappear into the upholstery. When I asked him why he hadn’t gone inside to class, he wouldn’t look at me. He murmured that he was “just a little cold.”
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