Lane: They woke to the sun streaming through the bus windows. He glanced out the glass and grinned. She buried her face in his sweatshirt. “Too bright.” He remembers every detail. They were curled together on the front seat of the Greyhound, between his battered duffel bag and her Hannah Montana purse. For three days, they had been traveling south. It had been dark since they left Atlanta. Now, squinting in the blinding dawn, he saw that they were cruising over a long bridge. On both sides, small white waves capped the bluest water he had ever seen. Ahead, there was land — a wide causeway lined with tall palm trees. Palm trees! Just like on Sponge Bob. He draped his arm around his girlfriend’s thin shoulders. He kissed her pale forehead, then both of her eyelids. “Look,” he said softly. “We’re here.” Welcome to Florida.
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