11

The eerie, fog-like dust hung in the air around the bus. Colors shifted every few minutes as pillows of dust washed over them.

Julia slipped next to Tyler in his seat. She squeezed his hand and his heart did a one-eighty flip. She even interlaced their fingers. He couldn’t believe he wasn’t dreaming this. She hadn’t let go of his hand yet. The whole thing felt surreal.

Tyler squeezed back to make sure he was really awake. Then he worried his hand might get sweaty. That would be gross. After a while, Tyler gently let go of her hand.

Someone began to cry.

“Are we going to die?” Daniela whispered.

“Don’t be stupid. We’ll be fine,” Sha’relle shushed her.

“No one’s going to die,” Ethan said, but his voice sounded shaky as if he didn’t quite believe what he was saying.

“I need to get out of here!” It was Daniela again. She bolted out of her seat and raced toward the back emergency exit. “I’m getting out!”

“No,” Ethan said, following her. “Calm down. Take deep breaths. You’re okay, Daniela.” He took her hand and led her back to her seat, but stood in the aisle in between her and the emergency exit. Mr. Dwyer was now standing near the front entrance, so they didn’t have to worry about her trying that door.

The wind outside howled more loudly than ever, continuing to rock the bus like waves against a ship. The storm continued to swirl along its path toward Phoenix and tossed debris against the side of the bus. The other students were still rustling with nervous energy. Someone was still crying. Ethan was so good at helping keep people calm, but what if too many people started panicking at once? Tyler felt he had to do something to help keep the tension in check. Then he had an idea.

Tyler stood in the center of the aisle. Standing was supposed to help project the voice. He adjusted the shirt covering his face. He needed to keep using it as a protection against the dust, even though the covering muffled his voice. In order for his voice to be heard all the way to the back of the bus, he’d need to speak up. Tyler cleared his throat. Having the first sentence memorized and ready to deliver was key to a successful speech.

“There is a story of a rabbit’s foot that allowed anyone who possessed it to make three wishes.”

The crying ceased and ended with a sniffle.

The bus looked like a theater of silhouettes. The shadows appeared to look up at him. There was a trickle of noise as people quieted down and shifted in their seats.

Sha’relle whispered, “It’s his story. His event.”

“Shhhh,” Ethan hissed.

Tyler straightened up. He was off to a good start, much better than during the competition. In competitions, the students always had microphones, but speaking with microphones made him nervous—especially when they made that awful feedback sound like Tyler’s microphone had earlier that day. The darkness helped keep Tyler’s fear of failure at bay, but right now his goal wasn’t to win an event. If he did a good job, maybe he could help people forget about the storm for a while.

The details of the story poured out easily: how the rabbit’s foot wound up in an old woman’s hands, how she wished to have her dead husband back, how she wished to be young again.

The bus was swaying in the wind and Tyler steadied himself by grasping the seatbacks. By the time he reached the end of the story, he was gesturing with his hands and hardly considering the storm outside.

“And that is how Abigail’s Rabbit’s Foot taught her to be careful what she wished for.”

The bus was silent for a few moments. Then someone clapped. The applause was coming from where Tyler thought Ethan was sitting, but pretty soon everyone else joined in. Tyler took a bow, even though people couldn’t really see him. He remembered what his dad said again: You appreciate things more if you have to earn them. And Tyler felt he had earned this applause. He had delivered a great speech to a captive audience, and suddenly the tournament results didn’t seem to matter as much. He enjoyed the feeling of triumph until the wind howled.

The howling really did sound like a coyote, and it brought everyone back to the situation at hand. The bus creaked and rattled again.

Thunk!

Something big and heavy hit a side window and shattered the glass. Was it a bird? A rock? Tyler couldn’t tell. Voices shouted in the darkness.

“Oh my god!” Daniela yelped. “Our window!”

“Stay calm,” Sha’relle reminded her. “I need a sweater or something.” Footsteps stampeded to the front of the bus, then back again.

Kevin handed his sweatshirt to José, who carried it over to the girls. “Thanks,” Sha’relle said quickly. She turned to Daniela. “Help me hold this in place. Someone get the tape!”

“Here,” Mr. Dwyer said, handing Sha’relle the roll of duct tape as she pressed the sweatshirt against the window.

Tyler rushed to the girls’ window and fought to hold one side of the sweatshirt down. A sleeve of the sweatshirt flapped up and smacked Tyler in the face. He pushed it down again with his free hand. Something sharp bit his hand. He jerked his hand away.

José held the sweatshirt in place at the other end of the window. Sha’relle taped the fabric in place just like they’d done with the other window.

More dust had blown in through the broken window. Now the air in the bus was even worse. Once the covering was in place, Tyler stepped away. He felt something wet on his hand—but it wasn’t raining.

He sniffed his hand where he had felt the sting. Blood—he smelled blood.

“I think I cut myself!” Tyler said. “I need to stop the bleeding.”

“Don’t panic. We need to find some fabric to press down on it,” Mr. Dwyer instructed, looking through the seats.

Julia hastily untied a decorative scarf she kept looped through the strap on her messenger bag. She rushed over and wound the scarf around his hand several times. “Press down where it’s bleeding,” Mr. Dwyer said again.

Julia gripped Tyler’s hand and pressed the wound with him.

“You’re going to be fine. You’ll be okay.” She kept repeating herself. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

Tyler took slow, deep breaths, trying to stay calm so his asthma wouldn’t act up again.

Breathebreathebreathe . . . breathe . . . breathe. . . . . . breathe . . . . . . . . . breathe.

He prayed he wouldn’t have another asthma attack. What if the inhaler didn’t work next time?