Chapter 10: Pre-Trip

I found my daughter at six on Wednesday morning, asleep across the front seat of Bus 14 with her fleece over her face.

The district yard is a gravel lot behind the middle school, with a chain-link fence and forty buses parked nose to tail.

Bus 14 sat at the end of the third row.

It is a yellow 2019 model with forty-eight seats and a stop arm.

A sticker on the dash says MY OTHER CAR IS ALSO THIS BUS.

I climbed the steps with two coffees.

"I'm not talking to you," said Lucy from under the fleece.

"I brought a croissant."

"I'm still not talking to you."

"I'd like to learn the pre-trip inspection," I said.

The fleece came down.

"You what?" said Lucy.

"It's on your clipboard. Every morning. I've seen you do it."

"It's not a trip, Dad. It's a safety inspection."

"A pre-trip inspection," I said. "It has a laminated card."

She looked at me for a long moment.

Then she sat up, took the croissant, and handed me the clipboard.

I will admit that I felt joy.

The card was a single page with forty-one items in two columns, each with a box.

Tires, lights, mirrors, stop arm, wipers, emergency exit, fire extinguisher, first-aid kit, body fluids kit.

It had been designed by a state agency.

It had been designed by people like me.

"I read the item," I said, "and you touch it."

"That's the idea."

"Left front tire."

She went down the steps and put her hand on it.

"Check."

"Right front tire," I said.

She crossed to it and thumped it with her palm.

"Check."

"Windshield wipers, driver side."

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