He swallowed.
“I saw flashes.”
The biker looked at the pavement.
A faint dark scrape line ran behind the bus.
He walked backward along it.
Twenty feet.
Thirty.
Forty.
The line became clearer.
Tiny silver fragments glittered on the asphalt.
Metal.
The tank had been touching the road.
The biker closed his eyes briefly.
The driver followed.
She looked down.
“I didn’t feel anything.”
“You might not.”
He pointed.
“Bus suspension would hide some of it.”
The driver’s face drained.
“That tank is diesel.”
“Yeah.”
“Diesel doesn’t ignite like gasoline.”
“No.”
He looked toward the children.
“But I still wouldn’t drag a full tank over pavement and see how lucky we feel.”
The driver sat down on the guardrail.
Her legs stopped cooperating.
The biker did not touch her.
He stood nearby.
The teacher was calling dispatch.
The driver stared at the bus.
“I did the pre-trip.”
The biker looked at her.
“What?”
“I checked it this morning.”
Her voice became defensive.
“I checked everything.”
“Lights.”
“Tires.”
“Leaks.”
“Mirrors.”
“Brakes.”
“I walked around it.”
The biker nodded.
“I’m not blaming you.”
She looked at him sharply.
“I’m blaming me.”
“That’s different.”
She stared.
He pointed under the bus.
“A broken mounting strap can hide until it lets go.”
The driver looked toward the boy.
“But he saw it.”
“From a rear window.”
“That doesn’t mean you should’ve.”
She covered her face.
The biker looked away.
He understood enough about shock to know people often needed a few seconds before words became useful again.
Sirens appeared in the distance.
The teacher had called 911.
The driver lowered her hands.
“I thought you were trying to hurt us.”
The biker nodded.
“Fair.”
She stared.
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
“What else?”
“You nearly ran in front of a school bus.”
“I know.”
“You could’ve been hit.”
“I know.”
“You could’ve caused me to lose control.”
“I know.”
The biker looked toward the children.
“But I tried riding beside you first.”
The driver frowned.
“What?”
“For almost a mile.”
“I was waving.”
“I thought you were angry.”
“I was.”
“That wasn’t helpful.”
“No.”
The biker almost smiled.
“But the kid was hitting the rear glass.”
“He kept pointing down.”
“I looked.”
The driver listened.
The biker continued.
“First time, I thought he was waving at the bike.”
“Kids do that.”
“Then I saw his face.”
He pointed at the roadway.
“And I saw sparks under the bus.”