Sarah listened intently all afternoon to the distant hum of engines, imagining each sound as the shape of the shuttle bus carrying her parents home. She knew the bus's wheezing, the smell of dust it kicked up when it stopped. Today should have been that once-every-four-years "homecoming day." She crouched by the gate, longing for the green bus to emerge from its tunnel. She remembered her mother saying before she left that she would bring back candy from the other side of the mountain, and then, the news struck like a cold stone hitting water: the bus had ended its route prematurely. There was no malfunction; she remained crouched there, as if questioning the land, the sky, and the empty road.