Something wet dripped from his nose. He mopped the offending moisture with his sleeve. Catching his reflection in a puddle, he groaned. His face was streaked black and red with the soot and grime and blood from his day in the coal mines. A lone street lamp next to the bus stop illuminated the skyscraper-high piles of rubble and ominous mountain doorway behind him. His fists ached, his back ached, his abyss-accustomed eyes ached from the blindingly orange sun going over the mountains, but his eyes glittered with a sort of manic energy.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, numb with cold, and clenched his fist around a gold locket still sticky with blood when a light that sputtered and a rattle that moaned inched up the cracked road. The bus. Hopefully the driver wasn’t chatty.

Squealing in pain, the bus came to a stop. Then moved. Then stopped again. The paint-chipped doors started to screech open and then halted, as if they had suddenly heard some violently bad news. With liver-spotted hands, the portly driver pried the doors open, causing a sound akin to a dying bird’s final screech.

“Sorry sonny, this bus is gettin’ old. Damn county won’t give us another one.”

The bus driver’s voice rattled with the smoke of 50 years.

The man merely nodded and continued inside. Both took their respective seats, one up front by the wheel, the other in a seat about halfway back, a lone figure among the ghosts of previous passengers.

After 15 minutes of awkward silence and both looking in the rearview mirror to get a look at the other but making eye contact and then pretending nothing had happened, the bus driver said,

“So why’s a nice fella like yourself working in the mines?”

“I don’t know. Had some problems in school, I guess.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Do you have any friends down there?”

  An angry cloud passed over the man’s face.

“I used to.”

“Well you are cryptic one, aren’t you? Where are you from, sonny?”

“Lived here all my life. Lived overseas during the war for a bit.”

“War’s a b****, ain’t it. I served my time too. Different war, of course.”

“Of course.”

They continued in silence for another 10 minutes.

“What’s your name, son? I might know your family. I been here since they started this little place.”

Gritting his teeth, he said, “My mother’s name was Lowenson.” He blinked back tears and his fists clenched and unclenched in a familiar motion. The locket creaked in his pocket.

Grinning incredulously, the bus driver looked back at his passenger in the mirror.

“You’re a Lowenson? My, my. Well, I think your mother would be mighty proud of her son. Shame about that accident. She was a lovely lady,” his eyes glazed over with fond memories, “A mighty fine lady.”

“Yeah,” the stranger muttered, “She was lovely.” He took the locket out of his coat pocket and wiped the blood off his thumb. Then he said, under his breath,

“It wasn’t an accident.”

“What was that, son?”

“It wasn’t an accident.”

“I thought the police said it was just a robbery. Some guy stole some jewelry and made a ruckus downstairs. They said she got scared and had a heart attack.”

“The police were wrong.”

“Well, I’ll be. What actually happened?”

“She was killed by the robber.”

The bus driver sucked in a breath.

“Did she know the guy?”

“Yeah,” he lifted his gaze to the mirror, eyes made of steel. “I did too. He was a miner.”

The bus wobbled a little as the driver shifted nervously in his seat.

“That musta been a real shocker.”

“No kidding.” He chuckled to himself and played with the locket chain, which glinted in the light of the dying sun.

“I hope you didn’t do anything brash.”

The bus wobbled some more.

The man paused before saying, “No. I just took back what was mine.”

The bus driver’s eyes flickered back and forth from the poorly illuminated road to the man, his back erect, a model of control. But his eyes burned with the embers of anger and grief and his hands twitched and clenched. The driver shook his head, deflecting thoughts that couldn’t, shouldn’t be true. He kept his eyes glued to the road.

For the next half hour, they remained so. As the lights of snow-covered houses and the silhouettes of office buildings and the faded bus stop sign came into focus, the miner looked up.

“We’re here, sonny.”

“I know.”

For a moment, neither moved. They watched the soft white dots drift peacefully to the ground.

“I don’t want to go home,” the miner said.

“Well, you sure as hell can’t stay on this bus. My wife would kill me if I brought any more strays home.”

The miner smiled.

“Then I won’t inconvenience you any longer.”

“You have a good night, son.”

“You too.”

He walked down one step, then turned and paused, gaze downward.

“Do you think I’m a bad person?”

Caught off guard, the bus driver said slowly, “Not necessarily, no. Why? Do you think you’re a bad person?”

Clutching the locket, rubbing the face of it with his thumb, remembering the blood dried in the engraving, the blood that wasn’t his, he said, “I’m not sure anymore.”

Before the bus driver could say anything else, the miner turned and went down the rest of the steps. From the warm inside of the driver’s seat, he watched the lone figure trudge through the fresh, chilly blanket on the sidewalk, leaving black and sooty footprints in the snow.

Shaking his head, the bus driver muttered, “I’ve gotta stop taking late shifts.”