Detroit

I darted off the plane toward baggage claim, avoiding the frenzy of people that surrounded the help desk. What was I to do? I refused to wait until the next plane's departure. Could I rent a car? I was too young. So, I waited for the bus. 

I lugged my baggage to the station across the street and sat curbside. Hours later, the bus  arrived, screeching to a halt, the engine in need of a respite from hours of travel. The bus doors opened, and I glanced upward. The driver’s crooked smile was oddly comforting. I was quick to confirm with him that this bus, indeed, was headed West toward Chicago. 

I walked steadily down the aisle, grasping tightly to my luggage. Several passengers were already seated. One man was sprawled out in the back sound asleep. My gaze stopped to examine his filthy thumb bandage that appeared to be unraveling at the seams, exposing the wound beneath. To the left, another man chatted up a young woman. However, the conversation seemed to lag. I’d sit there, I thought to myself. 

Suddenly, the man shot to his feet, recognizing the bus had arrived in Detroit and violently shook the other. “Dean! Dean! Let’s go,” he said. I watched as the two ragged looking men collected their things and stumbled out of the bus. 

The bus engine roared. According to the route, we were to traverse the state of Michigan. My arrival was certain. However, it was unclear as to what I would do next.