Chapter 7
The 4th Street transit shed smelled of diesel fumes, damp wool, and roasted peanuts from a nearby vendor cart. A single overhead bulb cast a harsh yellow glow over the fold-out table where Sarah Jenkins had spread out a stack of hand-lettered flyers and a jar for donations.
Liam laid down a fresh set of architectural schematics, flipping them over to use the clean white backs for drafting a larger, more visible banner. As he sketched bold, clear lettering reading Support Route 42: Community Relief for Arthur, people began to trickle over from the arriving buses. Commuters who had spent the morning rushing home from their jobs paused to read the sign, many of them nodding in quiet recognition.
"Is this for the driver?" a young man in construction gear asked, pulling a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and sliding it into the jar. "I was on that bus three days before he collapsed. He waited ten extra minutes in the freezing rain for my shift to end so I wouldn't miss the connection. Good man doesn't deserve to lose his livelihood over hospital bills."
"It's for him," Sarah replied, handing him a flyer. "Every bit helps. We're setting up a direct relief account so the transit board doesn't touch it."
Liam watched the exchange with a quiet sense of validation. The isolation that characterized modern city life—where neighbors lived inches apart through thin apartment walls without ever learning each other's names—dissolved completely under the shared weight of a common crisis. For a few hours, the terminal transformed from a transient space of hurried departures into a genuine town square.
Officer Miller walked up, holding two cups of black coffee, and handed one to Liam. "You've got a steady hand, Vance," she observed, looking at the bold lettering on the banner. "Not just on a bus steering wheel, apparently."
"Drafting teaches you precision," Liam said, taking a sip of the hot coffee. "If your lines aren't anchored to a solid foundation, the whole structure collapses."
"And Arthur was the foundation of this route for twenty years," Miller said, leaning against a yellow handrail. "The transit union is offering standard disability, but it'll take months to process, and the medical sharks aren't going to wait. Word is, the hospital is already preparing to hand his account over to a secondary collections agency."
Liam’s jaw tightened. "Not if we beat them to it. How much do we need to clear the immediate balance?"
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"Roughly eight thousand dollars to settle the emergency room charges and buy him six months of breathing room," Miller said quietly. "It's a steep hill for a handful of bus riders."
Liam looked at the donation jar, which was already half-filled with crumpled bills and loose change. "It's a hill, sure," he said, rolling his marker between his fingers. "But we've got momentum."
