John Miller had been behind the wheel of a school bus in Cedar Falls for nearly fifteen years. By now, he thought he had seen just about everything kids could throw his way—sibling squabbles over seats, whispered secrets passed from row to row, candy wrappers hidden under cushions, and even the occasional napper drooling against the window. His mornings were filled with laughter, chatter, and the kind of controlled chaos that came with transporting dozens of children to school every day.
But that year, something felt different.
One particular child drew his attention, though not in the usual way. Emily Parker, a quiet ten-year-old, climbed aboard each morning with her head lowered, her backpack slung awkwardly over her small shoulders. She always chose the same spot—row four, left side, pressed against the window. While most kids were noisy and animated, Emily sat in silence. She would whisper a faint “good morning” but never more. What unsettled John most wasn’t her stillness during the ride—it was what he noticed at drop-off. Every morning, Emily’s eyes were red, her cheeks damp as she hurried away.
At first, John dismissed it as a phase. Maybe she was shy, maybe school was hard, maybe it was just one of those mornings every child has. But when he saw her wiping away tears day after day, something inside him refused to let it go. Experience told him that patterns meant something. And Emily’s pattern was pain.
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