Lana’s hand froze, the mug warming her palm. She didn’t need to write it down—she knew the case by heart. She’d been a child herself that year, homesick with chickenpox, and she’d watched from her bedroom window as her classmates piled onto the bus for the last field trip before summer break. She’d carried the memory—and the guilt of not being there—like a splinter under her skin ever since.
The drive to Morning Lake was slow, the fog stretching time. Pines lined the narrow road, silent sentinels. Lana passed the abandoned ranger station and turned onto the overgrown service road that had once led to the summer camp where the children were headed. She remembered the excitement: a lake, a fire pit, new cabins built by volunteers. She remembered the yearbook photo—smiling faces pressed against bus windows, cartoon backpacks, Walkmans, disposable cameras.
When she arrived, the construction crew had cleared a perimeter. Dull yellow patches of the bus were visible beneath the mud, half-crushed under the weight of decades. “We didn’t touch anything once we saw what it was,” the foreman told her. “You’ll want to see this.”
They’d opened the emergency exit door. The smell was earthy, sour. Inside: dust, mold, brittle decay. The seats were still in place, some seatbelts latched. A pink lunchbox lay beneath the third row. A single child’s shoe rested on the back step, covered in moss. But there were no bodies. The bus was empty—a hollow monument, a question mark buried in dirt.
