I’m Gerald. I’m 45. I drive a school bus in a town most people would pass through without noticing.

And until last week, I thought I understood exactly what my job was.

Rain, snow, fog thick enough to swallow headlights—I’m there before dawn, unlocking the gate, climbing into that creaky yellow beast, and coaxing the heater to life like it’s an old friend that needs encouragement. It’s not glamorous work, and my wife, Linda, is quick to remind me of that whenever the bills land on the kitchen counter like threats.

“You make peanuts, Gerald. Peanuts!” she snapped just last week, waving the electric bill in my face like it had personally insulted her.

“Peanuts are protein,” I muttered.

She didn’t laugh. Not even a little.

Still… I love this job. I love the rhythm of it. The way kids climb aboard half-asleep and leave wide awake. The way brothers argue for three stops straight and then share a snack like nothing happened. The way little ones whisper secrets into the air like the bus is a vault.

Those kids are why I show up.

Last Tuesday started like any other.

Except the cold.

It wasn’t normal cold. It was the kind that feels like it has teeth. The kind that crawls up your legs and settles in your bones, making you feel older than you are. My fingers stung just turning the key in the ignition.

I stomped my boots on the steps, shook frost off my scarf, and put on my usual “stern-but-not-mean” voice.