“Listen to me, you hourly wage fossil,” Trent whispered, his voice dripping with venom. “I’m Trent Lawson. I own Apex down the street. I could pull you out of that seat, fold your knees backwards, and choke you unconscious before you even realize you’re bleeding. Now put the bus in drive and shut your mouth.”

The bus fell dead silent. The hissing of the heater suddenly sounded deafening. Mrs. Higgins clutched her purse in the back row. A college student nervously looked down at his phone, pretending not to hear.

Arthur didn’t flinch. His heart rate didn’t elevate. His breathing remained at a steady, rhythmic 12 breaths per minute. He reached into his own pocket, pulled out six quarters, and dropped them into the fare box. The machine chimed, registering the full fare.

“Take a seat,” Arthur said softly. “The roads are getting bad.”

Trent laughed, a harsh barking sound. He slapped the plexiglass barrier hard enough to make it rattle. “That’s what I thought, beta.” He turned and swaggered to the back of the bus with his crew, taking up the disabled seating area, sprawling their legs out into the aisle.

Arthur simply shifted the bus into gear, checked his mirrors, and pulled smoothly out into the driving snow. But beneath the faded flannel shirt, something old and dormant began to stir.

The drive up Route 42 was a white-knuckle experience on a good day. The road hugged the edge of a steep canyon, a sheer drop-off of 300 feet on the right side, guarded only by a rusted guardrail that wouldn’t stop a compact car, let alone a municipal bus. The snow was falling heavier now, thick wet flakes that plastered themselves against the massive windshield. Arthur drove with a mechanical, flawless focus. He anticipated the slips before they happened, feathering the brakes and steering into the microscopic slides with the intuition of a man who had driven in environments far more hostile than a Colorado blizzard.

In the back of the bus, Trent and his crew were growing restless. The quiet submission of the driver hadn’t satisfied Trent’s ego. It had only emboldened him. He was a predator who had found an environment with no resistance, and he was getting bored.

Across the aisle from Trent sat a young woman, maybe 19, wearing a ski resort uniform. She had her headphones in and was staring fixedly out the window, clearly trying to avoid the boisterous group of fighters.

“Hey!” Trent called out to her, kicking the heel of his boot lightly against the plastic siding of her seat. “Hey, sweetheart.”

The girl kept her gaze fixed on the dark snowy window.

“Are you deaf?” Trent barked louder this time. He reached over and yanked the headphone cord out of her phone. The girl gasped, turning to him with wide, frightened eyes.