The bus was a relic; etched into the world by faraway heat shimmers, a form carved from the dirt it traversed. No decent engine powered the machine. It drifted, sometimes passing, more often trailing behind the clouds it coughed up.

“That’s us,” the big man, Roman, informed Noel. He’d been trying to make conversation since they’d sat on the same bench, but it was too hot for talking, and Noel’s nerves were wound tighter than his constricting clothes.

The button-up, the black tie, and the dress pants—too-tight hand-me-downs— squeezed every part of him, but there had been nothing else formal in his closet.

“I said, that’s us,” Roman repeated, louder this time. But Noel had already heard him.

“It is us,” he softly replied.

The sun sat up the road behind the bus, at the point in its rise where the shine was gold, brilliant, and violent. Noel glanced up to see Roman staring with a wide smile— whether from excitement or incompetent satisfaction, he couldn’t tell.

The bus’s route display read “Next Destination: Middle-Middle Base,” but beyond announcing its destination, it announced its arrival in pain:

It screamed and shook, threatening to come undone at the wheels before grinding to a halt, exhaling pale puffs of smoke. After the breath passed, the doors reluctantly creaked open, as if unwilling to release their passengers without a fight. The bus sought to keep them all in, Noel thought. The only thing preventing the packed container from spilling onto the asphalt was a man’s firm grip on the assist railing.

“Go on under,” he said. The veins and bulged muscles betrayed the easy smile. Sweat rained down his arms, forming a puddle.

Roman took a step, then pulled back. “Ah, do you need any—”

“Help?” The man laughed, tossing his head back, spraying the crowd behind him like a wave crash. “No, no, just go and squeeze in. Ain’t no more buses comin’ this way, so just…” He raised his elbow as much as it would go. “Just squeeze on in.”

A silent plea of please hurry flickered in his eyes. Roman quickly ducked under, but Noel hesitated for another reason.

“Does this bus stop in the suburbs?”

“Uh,” the man strained, sweat pooling, dripping off the bus, sizzling on the asphalt. “I don’t know… Hey! Does this—”

A window smeared with the residue of countless commuters rolled down. A face peeked out, more beautiful than her station here, though, blank and expressionless, as if her emotions still slept.

"It does."

For a moment, only wind passed between them. Then, memories of the tribunal rose.

“Th- thank you,” Noel stammered. She rolled the window back up, and Noel slid himself beneath the man, unfortunately brushing his hips against him.

“Sorry.”

“No problem at all, young lady,” the man said. Noel paused, then moved to try and sit by the girl in the front row.

The moment the doors closed the steel box became an oven. It growled to life and threw several people off balance as it lurched forward. As some windows rolled down, Noel called out to Barbara, the young woman in the front row.

“Barbs!”

The bus jolted over a bump and swerved. Barbara shot up and slammed the window shut before a cloud of dust crawled in. Slowly, she turned her head. When her eyes finally met Noel’s, they widened with contempt and began to water.

Message received.

Noel caught a final glimpse of her before she sank back into her seat. He retreated, pushing through the crowd, seeking to give her the space she silently demanded.

The ride was quiet, yet far from silent. No one dared to say how hot it was, but the air conditioner barked awake every few minutes before dying with a croak after a few seconds. No one mentioned how slowly they moved, but the engine wheezed its way down the road.

Those seated by windows held power— the power to choose how everyone suffered. Some windows remained open, until the dust grew unbearable and they were hastily shut. Others stayed closed, but when too many passengers ran for refuge from the grit, it was slammed with finality. Such choices: coughing, or choking on the reek of body odor and sweat. All the while on the world’s slowest bus, pushed by weak breezes, guided by loose steering wheels, and sputtering its way down the highway.

"Pothole!"

With a lurched violently, bounced, then swerved, tossing Noel against the window. He recoiled from the disgustingly stained glass and reached for the leather strap above, beckoning him to hold it for the rest of the trip.

He stretched with both hands, barely managing to grasp it.

“Hey!” A towering frame named Roman stood a few people over, and it shouted loud enough to be heard by the entire bus. “I couldn’t tell if you’d gotten on or not."

“Don’t be nervous,” Roman continued, voice cutting over the murmurs. A few people glanced in irritation, then chuckled when he added, “These jobs’ll hire anybody! Even me if I’m not careful.”

The bus swerved again, pinning Noel against a window. He struggled to rise, the weight of another passenger bore down on him and his strength was long ago taken by the oppressive heat.

Breathe, he reminded himself. Just breathe. The bus is packed, and this may be your new normal until you can afford a car. You have to be comfortable being uncomfortable. Comfortable with the stench. The temperature. Comfortable with the hand gripping his backside.

Gripping his ass.

Another hand slid around his waist, and he instinctively tried to swat it. The bus dipped again, forcing him to reach up for the straps. The hand persisted, pulling him closer to his unseen assailant. The next time the bus dipped, Noel didn’t move an inch. Whoever held him kept him in place.

“Hey—”

A hand clamped over his mouth— gentle, yet firm. As the last of Noel’s resistance seeped away, the hands resumed their exploration with new vigor. One traced a path from his neck to his back to his ass. The other, from his mouth, to his neck, and finally to his chest.

Fingers pinched a nipple, sending electricity through his body. He moaned— louder than intended— but the murmurs around him swallowed the sound. Sweat slicked his skin, making him more sensitive than normal, he told himself: it was the sweat making him sensitive, not the situation.

He’d been tense all morning— any touch might have felt good, and there was something familiar to this. The hands pinched hard and he yelped, then they rubbed his chest, undoing a button with ease. A hand slipped inside, fingers brushing and teasing bare skin.

He thought of yelling, of shoving them off and pushing himself to the front, but more than that, he thought of what might happen if this continued. If he let it continue. And without knowing, he gave in to the smell and the heat and arched his back to the harasser. Just as the hands on his chest reached for his crotch, the bus came to a sudden stop.

The intercom crackled: “If you are here for open interviews, please proceed to the visitor’s center.”

The hands withdrew, leaving Noel holding the straps— shirt half undone, body against the window, and his ass still arched. He slowly gathered himself, the sensation of eyes on him overwhelming every sense as he fumbled to fix his clothes. But the one thing he couldn’t hide was the small bulge in his pants as he stumbled through the crowd and off the bus.