Seventy-Five:

SEVENTY-FIVE:

Radio

“Report back, two-four.”

The handset sat on its hook, DC cable swinging in an arc, ticking the dash.

Static crunched. “You there, Liz?”

The voice on the radio belonged to Bridget Sargent. Bridget was overweight and loving, her messy hair tamed by bands and pencils. She greeted Liz every morning by tapping her garish fingernails against the window of her cubicle. Bridget was their Lead Fleet Correspondent. She alerted employees to changed traffic conditions and radioed drivers concerning route punctuality. Liz knew this was why Bridget was calling. A commuter must have tired of waiting for the bus to arrive and called the transit hotline to file a complaint. It was Bridget’s duty to find out the reason for the delay.

Liz imagined her co-worker’s plump face washed in the lights from her switchboard, could almost hear fingernails drumming against the desk. Brow furrowed, the first twinge of concern.

A wasp slammed against the windshield and splattered.

The bus