Off the grid by Guy Yasko

The bus slices through the grid, leaving six way intersections in its
wake. Inside, the boy holds his hand to the window and looks for a
street sign. His sister sits beside him and says nothing, her legs
swinging with each pothole.

The bus stops and idles. The boy hasn’t seen the sign.

— Harlem Ave, as far as we go, folks.

He has read of this place, on bus signs and route maps. It seemed
impossibly far away. He holds his limp transfer in his hand and waits
for a bus to take them back. Headlights tease, but no bus appears.

— Let’s walk.

His sister says nothing.

At the next stop, he doesn’t bother to look back. They walk on, past the
silent airport, past alphabetical streets.

— I’m tired.

The boy puts her on his back. She feels lighter when Ls turn to Ks.

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