Holly prayed for the 403 bus to crash. "Go and join the queue," her mother repeated, as their car idled by the sidewalk.

She prayed for it to happen at the top of Dane's Hill two miles back, with a long skid into the heather. Sore ribs, nose bleeds. Nobody should actually die, unless they were perverts or terrorists.

The 403 arrived in perfect roadworthy condition. In the waiting car, her mother’s impatient fingers tapped on the wheel. Mom didn't ask about the bleeps in her pocket that started at breakfast: eighty, maybe ninety text messages hitting Holly’s phone, each ping like a drop of acid. Holly gathered her coat and bag, and left the car without a word.

She messaged Sheryl as the queue shuffled forward.

"Where u at?"

"Up top."

"Crazy Lil??"

"Nowhere!!"

The tightness in Holly’s shoulders eased a little.