There they were — Maya and the kid —standing at a quiet bus stop off the main road. Maya had her hand on the boy’s shoulder, brows drawn, lips pressed thin. Her phone was in her hand, the screen lighting up every few seconds.
Worry. It was written all over her.
The driver, old but sharp, spoke up from the front. “Poor timing to be waiting on this route. Weekend buses here are always late. Damn transit cuts.”
A pulse of irritation slid through Damien’s jaw. He clenched it. Ignored it.
James turned slightly. “Should we offer them a ride? They look like they’re running late.”
Damien glanced again, and saw it. The way Maya’s shoulders were tensed. The way she kept checking the time. The boy looked pale under the morning sun.
Damien closed his eyes for half a beat.
“You know what to do,”
