It was her umpteenth shift in that cramped bus on a Monday morning. She had hoped to avoid the digging arms and elbows. But to no avail. Should she try again? The person sharing the seat was already stealing stares at her. She still had one and a half hour of commute. He would probably get off at the next stop or the one next to it. Or he could move to another place, if he really could. Yeah, she would give it a try. Another uneasy shift. Now, the weight, arms, elbows and eyes fell on her back. She could survive it. She risked one more movement, opening the rusted window. The cold, crisp, early October, morning air greeted her, a pleasant contrast to the stifling odors of the bus. She finally, settled cozily and tried to lose herself in the contours of the hills falling and rising, the waters breaking forcefully at the sands and stones. Sometimes, the banks were all sand. There were many footprints dug into the soft damp sands. She imagined all kinds of stories behind them. Some...