On a bitter February Tuesday, Marla woke with a fever.
Her throat hurt.
Her head felt packed with wool.
For the first time in nearly nine months, she called the dental clinic and said she could not come in.
Her supervisor sounded relieved she had finally admitted illness.
“You sound terrible.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sound like a haunted accordion.”
Marla hung up.
She made tea.
Wrapped herself in James’s old blue robe.
Stood near the kitchen window.
Snow from the previous weekend remained in gray piles along the street.
Children appeared one by one at the bus stop.
The yellow bus rounded the corner.
Marla barely noticed.
Then something orange crossed the sidewalk.
Her eyes followed.
Winnie.
She frowned.
“Winnie?”
The cat walked with purpose toward the corner.
Not wandering.
Not sniffing bushes.
Walking.
He joined the children.
Marla put down her tea.
“No.”
The bus stopped.
Doors opened.
Children boarded.
Winnie climbed behind them.
Marla froze.
The doors closed.
The bus drove away.
For almost ten seconds, she did nothing.
Then:
“What?”
She walked closer to the glass.
The bus disappeared.
Her tea cooled behind her.
Marla touched her forehead.
Fever.
Obviously.
She was hallucinating.
Perhaps Winnie had not boarded.
Perhaps he walked behind the bus.
Perhaps flu medication did something unusual to perception.
Then Winnie returned that evening.
5:21.
Through the pet door.
Calm.
Dry.
Hungry.
He ate dinner.
Washed one paw.
Jumped into James’s chair.
Nothing unusual.
Marla stared.
“Where were you?”
Winnie continued grooming.
“Did you ride a school bus?”
No response.
“You understand that sentence is insane.”
Winnie curled up.
The next morning Marla woke early.
Still sick.
But alert.
She positioned herself at the window at seven.
Winnie ate breakfast.
Drank water.
Groomed.
At 7:11, he looked toward the pet door.
At 7:12, he left.
Marla followed with her eyes.
Sidewalk.
Corner.
Children.
Bus.
7:15.
Doors open.
Winnie boarded.
Marla whispered:
“Oh my God.”
Thursday morning, fever lower, Marla put on a coat.
She waited near the front door.
Winnie left.
She followed.
The cat never looked back.
Marla had to walk quickly.
At the corner, Mr. Halverson opened the bus doors.
Three children climbed in.
Winnie followed.
Marla arrived seconds later.
“Wait!”
Mr. Halverson looked toward her.
She climbed onto the first step, breathing hard.
“Ma’am.”
He said carefully.
“This is a school bus.”
“I know.”
“I can’t transport random adults.”
“That cat is mine.”
Silence.
Mr. Halverson looked toward Winnie.
Winnie had already jumped onto the front bench.
“Scout?”
“His name is Winnie.”
Mr. Halverson blinked.
The children behind him began whispering.
“Scout has a mom.”
“His name is Winnie?”
“I like Scout better.”
Marla pointed.
“I adopted him four months ago.”
Mr. Halverson stared.
Then laughed.
Not at her.
From pure disbelief.
“Four months?”
“Yes.”
“He’s been riding four months.”
Marla stopped.
“What?”
“Every school day.”
“Gets on here.”