PEOPLE STUFFED IN this terminal like croutons in a box, so it’s hard to find April or see if Mrs. Rodriguez is still here.

It’s not a big station. Not a small one either. There are ten doors. Which mean they got ten buses coming and going at any one time. I see that man who offered me money. He holding a woman’s hand—his wife’s I bet. He trying to be a gentleman now. I watch him open the main door, letting her step outside first. The couple who sat behind me is standing in the line for the bus to Charlotte. He’s drinking a bottle of water. She sipping grape juice, it look like. They the first in line already. I don’t see April nowhere.

I take a few steps and stop. Turn my bag loose and wiggle my fingers. This suitcase is heavier than I thought. But standing in place is a good way to look for April. So, I turn in every direction slow as the minute hand on a clock and try to see where she at. She could be in the bathroom changing Cricket, I guess. Taking my bag, I start walking, not apologizing when it knocks into one lady’s knee and rolls over some man’s foot. I’m in a hurry. Like they in a hurry. When it happens to me, I keep my mouth closed and keep moving, until my wheels roll over some girl’s foot. She got on new sneakers, she say. Just bought ’em yesterday. She step up to me. Put her hands on me. I had to punch her. She got the nerve to hit me back. Which mean she gets hit again—punched harder.

“Hey! You two!”

No matter how clean a dog is, they still stink. So, I smell that shepherd before I see that cop. My feet and knees, private parts and thighs, all get sniffed. So do hers. His paws, big as my whole hand, scratch and scrape the floor. The chain pulling him back is thick and shiny, scary as his wet, slimy teeth. “Evening, girls.” The cop jerks hard on the chain, makes the dog stand still beside him. “No trouble here, is there?”

She says it before I do. “No, sir. We just—”

“Talking. She so loud.” I swallow. “People think she arguing even when she saying hello.”

She nervous like me. The top of my nose is sweating. Her hand opens and closes, opens and closes. “Can I go?” She’s not looking at him or this dog. Her eyes stay down, staring at the floor or her feet. “They just said my bus leaves in five minutes.”

They said somebody’s bus is leaving. I ain’t sure it’s hers.

He asks to see both our tickets. A few minutes later, he telling us we can go on our way. Him and his partner will be checking people who board the bus, so we can expect to run across him again, he tell us.

I get as far away from him as I can, over to the food counter. I order more than I can eat—nerves, I guess. “Hot chocolate with lots of marshmallows,” I tell the cashier. He look me up and down. Says he seen that dog rip a man’s kneecap off once. I order more food—two hot dogs with onions and mustard, a pack of glazed donuts, and a whole pickle, plus soda and corn chips. Eighteen dollars it cost. Not that I would think of not paying. I do that here, and I’m dog meat.