CHAPTER 25 – The Night Bus to Memphis

  The road between Springfield and Memphis unfurled in long, flat stretches of highway. The sun slid lower and lower until the sky bruised into pink and orange. By the time darkness settled in, the bus lights dimmed to a soft hum and most passengers drifted toward sleep.

  Fleta didn’t sleep.

  She pressed her cheek to the window, watching the blur of headlights streak by like stars falling sideways. Her reflection stared back at her—tired eyes, hair messy from wind and sweat, hoodie pulled tight around her shoulders.

  She didn’t look like the girl from Maple Street anymore.

  She looked like someone in motion.

  Someone becoming.

  Across the aisle, a toddler fussed quietly until his mother rocked him to sleep. The older gentleman with the duct?taped guitar case hummed softly, a tune that drifted through the bus like warm smoke. Every sound felt far away, like she was underwater in her own thoughts.

  Hours passed.

  Her stomach rumbled softly. She dug into her backpack and pulled out a pack of crackers, breaking one in half and letting it melt on her tongue. Not much, but enough.

  Then she noticed someone watching her.

  A teenage girl—maybe fifteen—sat two rows ahead, turned sideways in her seat. She wore earbuds and a denim jacket covered in pins. When their eyes met, the girl gave a small, tired smile.

  “Long trip?” she asked.

  Fleta nodded.

  “Same,” the girl said. “I’m headed to Jackson. Visiting family I barely know.” She rolled her eyes. “It’ll be awkward.”

  Fleta swallowed. “Mine’s… a long trip too.”

  The girl studied her. “You traveling alone?”

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  Fleta’s breath hitched. “Yeah.”

  “That’s tough,” the girl said, not unkindly. She hesitated, then added, “If you need anything, I’m over here. Okay?”

  Fleta nodded again. “Thanks.”

  The girl slipped her earbuds back in and turned away, leaving Fleta with a gift she didn’t expect:

  Not suspicion.

  Not danger.

  Just simple kindness.

  Outside, the highway rolled on. Trees flickered past. The moon hung low—thin, pale, quiet.

  Eventually the bus lights brightened slightly, signaling the next city ahead.

  A sign appeared through the glass:

  MEMPHIS

  NEXT EXIT

  Her pulse quickened.

  Memphis was big.

  Busy.

  Loud.

  And important.

  Because from Memphis, she would transfer to the Atlanta line.

  From Atlanta, she’d reach Georgia.

  And from Georgia… the trail.

  The bus began to slow, turning off the highway and winding through neon-lit streets. Bars glowed blue and red. Gas stations buzzed under harsh lights. People walked in clusters, laughing into the warm night.

  To Fleta, it looked like another planet.

  When the bus finally rolled into the Memphis terminal—a huge building humming with life at nearly midnight—her heart clenched in her chest.

  This was the busiest place she had ever been.

  Too many people.

  Too much noise.

  Too much everything.

  She gripped her pack strap tightly and followed the flow of passengers off the bus.

  The terminal roared around her—announcements over loudspeakers, the rattle of rolling suitcases, the smell of fried food drifting from a kiosk. No one looked at her. No one cared. She was invisible here.

  And that was good.

  She found a metal bench near the corner and sat, hugging her backpack to her stomach. Lights buzzed overhead. A baby cried somewhere nearby. A man shouted into his phone. A janitor swept the floor in slow, steady arcs.

  “Next bus to Atlanta departs at 1:05 AM,” the overhead speaker called.

  1:05 AM.

  Less than two hours.

  She reached into her pocket and closed her hand around the tiny wooden hiker. Connor’s gift.

  Her anchor.

  Her courage.

  Her reminder.

  She whispered into the noise:

  “I made it this far. I can make it farther.”

  The minutes ticked by.

  When the clock struck 12:57 AM, the Atlanta bus rolled into the terminal with a deep, growling engine.

  Passengers queued up.

  Fleta stood.

  Her legs were tired.

  Her shoulders throbbed.

  Her eyes burned.

  But her heart—

  her heart was steady.

  She stepped into line.

  Tomorrow she would reach Georgia.

  Soon she would reach the mountains.

  And for the first time, she believed—

  she might actually make it.