She stepped onto the pavement.
“You could have caused a crash.”
The biker was already on one knee.
He looked beneath the bus.
The driver marched toward him.
“Sir, I said—”
He raised one hand.
Not toward her.
A warning.
“Stop.”
Something in his voice made her stop.
The biker lowered his head farther.
His eyes followed something beneath the chassis.
His face changed.
The anger disappeared.
So did the urgency.
What replaced it was worse.
Fear.
The teacher came around the side.
“What do you see?”
The biker stood slowly.
“Get every kid off.”
The driver’s frustration flared again.
“Why?”
He pointed beneath the rear of the bus.
“Because your fuel tank is hanging by one strap.”
For a second, nobody spoke.
The driver looked at him.
“What?”
“Rear support strap is gone.”
The biker pointed lower.
“Front strap’s still holding, but barely.”
She stared under the bus.
At first she saw only shadow.
Then metal.
A large rectangular tank sat lower than it should have.
One side sagged dangerously toward the pavement.
The bottom edge showed bright fresh scrape marks.
The teacher covered her mouth.
The driver whispered, “Oh my God.”
The biker moved immediately.
“Don’t start it again.”
She looked at him.
“It’s already off.”
“Keep it off.”
He glanced toward the children watching through the windows.
“Get them away from the road.”
The driver’s training returned.
She turned.
“Everybody off the bus.”
The teacher was already moving toward the door.
Children began shouting questions.
“What happened?”
“Are we in trouble?”
“Did the biker break it?”
“Is the bus on fire?”
The driver stepped inside.
Her voice became firm.
“Listen to me.”
The children quieted.
“We are getting off the bus calmly.”
“No running.”
“No pushing.”
“Take only what is in your hands.”
A boy near the middle raised his hand.
“What about my backpack?”
“Leave it.”
That made the children nervous.
The teacher added, “We’re just moving away from the bus for a little while.”
“Stay together.”
One by one, they exited.
The biker stood beside the road and waved approaching traffic around the stopped bus.
He kept his motorcycle parked across part of the lane as a visible barrier.
The teacher counted children as they crossed toward a grassy shoulder beyond the guardrail.
Twenty-seven.
Twenty-eight.
Twenty-nine.
Thirty.
The driver counted again.
Thirty.
The eight-year-old boy came last.
He held the teacher’s hand.
As he passed the biker, he looked up.
The biker nodded once.
“You saw it.”
The boy nodded.
His face was still pale.
The biker crouched.
“How?”
The boy looked toward the bus.
“It was making sparks.”
The driver heard him.
“What?”
The boy pointed under the rear.
“When we went over bumps.”