Despite the whole environmental awareness movement and the push to use public transit, he figured no one else living on Seminary Lane, Cloister Drive, Monastery Road, or any of the other streets in his subdivision ever took the bus. As if to underscore that point, a Lexus GS450, an Acura ZDX, and a Mercedes SLK350 drove past him, each carrying only the driver. Watching them cruise by—all of them probably going to the same frigging place, one of those big box stores out at Bayers Lake—Ethan couldn’t help wondering when vehicles started getting names with numbers instead of nouns. Cobra, Corvette, Beretta, Stealth—now those were names that grabbed you. Hell, even place names like Sonoma and Santa Fe were better than combinations of letters and numbers that looked like something you’d see on a pharmacy prescription. He shrugged and kept walking. Not knowing the people on his bus was actually an advantage—it meant he didn’t have to talk to anyone. Like always on a Sunday, he had run flat out at The Chow Down, so he liked being able to close his eyes and let the motion of the bus ease some of the stiffness from his body.
