T.L. Ryan

Elle stuffs the last bit of mushroom she can fit in her wicker basket and starts out of the forest. She hadn’t realized how deep she’d ventured in and the sun is rapidly setting, so she must hurry.

I take my usual seat on the bus and slip on my earbuds. I hate the late shift. Taking the late bus always feels so dreadful to me, even if nothing interesting happens besides the occasional drunk who tries to pick a fight with the driver.

Sarah checks her watch again, silently begging it to be wrong. He’s not late. Not this time. He can’t be.