“Southbound on 83”
I’ve seen the white bus. Not a school bus. Not a church van. A ghost—rolling bones and orange jumpsuits— southbound on Highway 83 like it’s dragging the weight of a broken country behind it. They call it “transport.” Like it’s just movement. Like it doesn’t smell like bleach and piss and panic. Like it doesn’t hold a mother’s scream pressed against steel. Like it’s not a coffin on wheels with a heartbeat you can’t hear. I saw it once at a rest stop— all tinted windows and chainlink daydreams. A woman inside mouthed “Tell my babies I’m okay” but the glass didn’t translate grief. That highway knows her name. Knows how she once danced barefoot in the rain before the needle before the man before the court that forgot she was a child once. Highway 83 stretches like a judgment without mercy— north to courtrooms, south to cinderblock silence. No exits. Only destinations that forget redemption. Some of the women on that bus never learned how to cry without flinching first. Some still braid the...