When a little girl tripped on the first step and her backpack slipped from her shoulder, Rowan pulled over before the bus had even fully merged, rising from his seat just enough to see clearly.
“Take your time,” he said calmly.
“Everyone seated and buckled before we move.”
There was no irritation in his voice, no forced cheer, just certainty, and the children responded instinctively, settling into place, fastening belts with small clicks that sounded louder in the quiet.
Over the next week, parents began to notice patterns they couldn’t quite explain, because Rowan never touched his phone, never sped even when cars piled up behind him, never crept into intersections when the light turned green, always leaving more space than required, always waiting until every child was safely inside before closing the door, his gaze tracking reflections like a habit he couldn’t unlearn even if he wanted to.
Still, the whispers grew louder.
“He doesn’t smile at them.”
“He looks angry all the time.”
“My son says he watches them like he’s counting something.”
By Friday morning, a mother named Sarah Collins, who had lived on Pine Hollow Road long enough to believe she understood people at a glance, finally approached him as the last child climbed aboard, her tone careful, polite, edged with unease.
“You know,” she said, folding her arms loosely, “you don’t have to be so intense, they’re just kids.”
