The eleven year old girl on the bus moves over to sit in front of her mother. This way she is now in the row across the aisle from me, so we can see each other. She gives me a tight-lipped, shy smile, and I return it. As we ride along, she slumps and points her toes in order to touch the floor. She unzips the front pocket of her bookbag and dips her fingers into a trove of pens and pencils. She feels at them, then leaves her fingers there, as though the writing utensils are holding her hand. She sighs and closes her eyes.

Later, she studies me back. She peers over. She wonders what I see out the window that makes me stare past her, over her head, then smile to myself and scrawl in my notebook, remarkably steady in our swaying bus. I note small plowed…