The bus shook with every bump on the cracked road, the sound of rattling metal echoing through its hollow body. Rain streaked across the fogged windows, blurring the world outside into shifting shapes of grey. A nurse sat up front, her white uniform bright against the dim interior, clipboard balanced on her lap. The driver never looked back.

You sat in the fourth row, hands gripping your seat, the hospital bracelet biting against your wrist. The others were scattered through the bus—some asleep, some staring blankly, others rocking with quiet rhythm. The hum of the engine drowned out the faint sniffles and restless shuffling.

A girl across the aisle—Jennifer—tapped her fingers against the window, tracing invisible shapes in the condensation. Every so often, her gaze flicked toward the clouds above, where the faint outline of a silver jet waited on a distant runway.

The bus turned off the main road, the asylum vanishing behind a wall of mist. Ahead, the jet gleamed beneath the floodlights, surrounded by tall fences and men in dark coats. The rain grew heavier, drumming against the roof, and the smell of antiseptic mixed with damp metal filled the air.

As the bus slowed to a stop, the sound of the doors creaking open sliced through the stillness. One by one, the children began to rise—silent, obedient, ghostlike. The last thing you noticed before stepping out was Jennifer’s reflection in the glass, smiling faintly, though her eyes didn’t match the expression.