I sat down at the table across from him.
Mr. Walter had been driving the same yellow bus through our town for almost 30 years. Kids in middle school now had older siblings who rode with him.
Their parents had probably ridden with him, too.
Everybody knew him. That was the problem.
We knew him in that lazy community way where someone becomes part of the landscape. Like the post office, or the crossing guard, or the woman at the bakery who always slips one extra cookie into the bag.
He was just there. Constant, reliable, and easy to overlook.
But the kids noticed things adults missed.
Every birthday, the child getting on Mr. Walter’s bus found a little handwritten card taped beside their seat.
“Happy 10th Birthday, Lucy. Try not to let your dog eat your presents.”
“Happy 7th Birthday, Mason. Today, you are officially old enough to stop losing one glove every winter.”
