The passengers around them had begun reminiscing about the haunting atmosphere of the walled city, the size of the iguanas, and the softness of the sand down at the beach. With one ear tuned to their conversations, Emma noticed that the bus was approaching an intersection of a town she hadn’t seen before. It turned right onto a perpendicular road—one that even she could tell took them away from the coastline. As it accelerated rapidly, she glanced askance at Jeremiah, who stood up without warning.
To Emma’s surprise, he made his way to the front of the bus to speak to the driver. She strained her ears to hear what he said.
“Why are we going this way?” she heard him demand.
The driver muttered a reply she couldn’t hear.
“We’re headed west, not north,” Jeremiah asserted. “Turn this bus around.”
The driver’s emphatic refusal was accompanied by a worried glance as he craned his neck to take in Jeremiah’s intimidating stature.
“I know what I’m doing, señor,” she heard the driver say. “We go this way to avoid the stoplights.”
“Hey, sit down,” suggested a bald man sitting up front with either his wife or girlfriend. His burly arm, covered with tattoos, protruded into the aisle. “He knows where he’s going.”
Jeremiah ignored him. He planted his feet where he stood and consulted his tactical watch which, Emma suspected, had a built-in compass.
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