There was something strange about that bus driver, too. He was very young, for one thing, and short; he had to stretch his right leg — it seemed uncomfortably— to reach the gas pedal. He had straight hair, longer than the current fashion, and bangs that hung over his eyes. Could he see well enough to drive? He let out a rough guffaw whenever he encountered anything in the road—large rocks, or goats, or cows—as he veered around them, honking his horn repeatedly with his elbow. Gaby found herself watching the passing countryside through the front windshield: green fields with dots of farmhouses in the distance, curling feathers of smoke rising from the chimneys, piles of stones that once was somebody’s home. The rubbery bus seat seemed smoother than the bus seats in New York. Perhaps it was newer. The bus was painted brightly, too, in contrast to the unpainted horse carts they passed. There were very few other motorized vehicles on the road, actually. The bus was, comparatively, enormous. A beast of the modern wild.