Some Degree of Murder

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Coming into River City by bus would not have been my first choice. I didn’t have much choice in the way of travel unless I wanted to drive and that’s a task I hate doing, especially interstate.

The equipment in my bag was the sort of thing that the airlines frown upon. Thankfully, no terrorist has ever used a Greyhound to crash into a Denny’s, so the rules are looser with ground travel. Besides, no one would really complain about an attack on either of those two staples of Americana.

Greyhound’s employees stack unchecked bags underneath a bus without a second of hesitation. Their eight dollar an hour mentality couldn’t handle any extra strain from the Department of Homeland Security.

When the bus finally shuddered to a stop behind the station, I nudged the sleeping woman next to me. She had slept with her mouth open for the last hour of the trip. She snorted and adjusted her position in the seat. I glanced around the bus as people got to their feet and shuffled to the exit.

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