“You thought I was weak because I couldn’t see you,” Harper said. Her voice dropped, vibrating with a quiet, terrifying intensity. “Next time you see someone in the dark, remember that they might know how to navigate it better than you do.” A heavy pneumatic hiss cut through the tension. Harper turned her head. The unmistakable low rumble of a heavy diesel engine followed by the screech of wet air brakes. The 42B Crosstown bus had finally arrived. The folding doors clattered open with a mechanized sigh. Harper didn’t wait to see if the bullies recovered. She didn’t gloat. She simply turned her back on them.
She took two precise steps forward, using her memory of the shelter’s dimensions, and felt the edge of the bus step with the toe of her shoe. She reached out, found the metal handrail, and pulled herself up into the warmth of the bus. “You okay, miss?” the driver asked. His voice was gravelly, laced with concern. He had undoubtedly seen the bodies on the pavement outside. “I’m fine, thank you,” Harper said smoothly. She tapped her transit card against the reader. The machine beeped cheerfully, a stark contrast to the violence outside. “Those kids bothering you? Do I need to call transit police?”
Harper paused. She thought about the cops, the statements, the inevitable patronizing tone of officers trying to figure out how a blind girl managed to hospitalize two able-bodied men. The narrative would shift. She would become a victim again in their eyes. Just a victim who got lucky. “No,” Harper said quietly. “They just tripped. The pavement is very slick tonight.” The driver grunted, clearly unconvinced, but he didn’t press the issue. The doors hissed shut, sealing away the cold, the rain, and the pathetic groans of Logan and Caleb. Harper moved down the aisle. She found an empty seat near the middle, running her hand along the damp fabric before sitting down.
As the bus lurched forward, pulling away from the curb, Harper finally allowed her shoulders to drop. She pressed her hands against her thighs. They were trembling. It wasn’t fear. It was the physiological crash, the body’s frantic attempt to burn off the excess cortisol and adrenaline that was still flooding her bloodstream. She took a slow, deep breath, burying her face in her rough hands. She had won the fight. She was safe. But as she reached down to the floorboard out of sheer habit, her fingers brushed against empty air. Her chest tightened. Her cane. It was lying in two jagged, useless pieces back at the shelter. Logan had broken her jaw. Figuratively speaking, he had stripped her of her eyes.
