“Look at the light,” says one of them. She can’t see which one because they’re behind her, but she hears his voice clearly, and all the others stop their chatter.
And the orange light of the sunset is cast across people’s faces, their coats and bags and the fabric of the seats is burnished.
Outside the sky ignites, making silhouettes of trees and the lamp posts and shadow puppets of the urban clutter that passes them as the Number 65 approaches Kingston.
In that long moment no one around her on the top deck speaks, and the engine hums orange.
But the sky dims in seconds, chatter returns, there is no more puppet show, and Teresa’s shift starts in fifteen minutes.