Sky: Snows, turns dark.
Street: Freezes. Remains on a hill.
Traffic: None on this block.
Two: Did I miss the bus?
One: You either missed it, or it didn’t come.
Two: Hasn’t come.
One: One or the other. Which one?
Two: I don’t know; I asked you.
One: I meant which bus.
One: I’m ST325.
Two: How long have you been waiting?
One: Holds up a wrist well-layered with gloves and sleeves, drops it before exposing anything. I don’t know. My watch froze.
Two: Since you’ve been waiting?
One: Since I’ve been waiting.
Two: You’ve been waiting long.
One: Have I? I don’t know. My watch—
Four Hands: Rubbed together, stuck in pockets, pulled back out and breathed upon.
Two: Is that a bus?
One: Headlights anyway.
Traffic: A white bus swirled with ambiguous blues and greens takes ten minutes to traverse a block.
Bus: Stops. Opens door. Displays no number.
Driver: Get in fast. The brakes can’t hold for long.
One: Bounds onto bus, flashing pass.
Two: Which bus is this? Where are you going?
Driver: Everywhere we can get. This is the Arctic Express; get on.
Two: Steps away.
Bus: Begins to slip.
Driver: Your loss.
Bus: Closes door. Crawls away. Disappears after five minutes.
Two: Must be fog. Maybe they’ll let me sleep in Starbucks.