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have.”
    I look to the crowd for support.
    “Sure.” He drops it, grinding it under his boot. He moves his shoe. I kneel, pick it up.
    “Attention all officers in the Fremont vicinity,” the walkie-talkie on the Fake Cop’s hip squawks. “Armed robbery, repeat, armed robbery in progress at—”
    “We’ll be seeing you,” Rent-A-Cop says, Officer DickHead’s voice in stereo. They turn and march off. From the back, Death’s fat ass looks like a pair of overweight marching band majorettes.
    Under the baggy clothes, my body is out-of-the-shower wet. I run toward Gate Two. The bus doors pull shut. The engine revvs.
    “Hey!” I pound on the door. The giant metal creature lurches, moves back. It’s going to leave without me.
    “HEY!” I pound harder, running backward with the bus. “LET ME IN!”
    Abruptly, the bus stops—not because of me, I realize, but because the driver needs to make a two-point turn and pull onto the road.
    “LET ME IN!” I shout, pounding hard, one last time.
    The door wheezes and … opens.
    “Go on, get in,” the driver says, impatient behind his silver aviator glasses. Like I was lingering or taking my time. I grab the handicap bar and pull myself up, into the stairwell. Behind me, the door shuts and seals out the hot air.
    I head to the back. I sit and look back, out the rear window. The red brake light licks the black asphalt. The bus rolls into the desert, moving away from Las Vegas, an empty giant slot machine made of bright, blinking lights.
    Head. Rest. Eyes. Shut.
    My vision goes white, blank as a movie screen, same as when the red curtains pull back and the theater dims. An image flickers on the white screen and—
    The movie starts.
    The boy drives a cherry red Karmann Ghia. Sunlight explodes on his hair. He’s smiling, singing.
    I look in the rearview mirror. A woman sits in the car’s tiny backseat. Wind ruffles the scarf tied around her head. She wears glamorous sunglasses, bright red lipstick and a low-cut white dress with a red cherry print.
    “Mom?”
    She smiles but says nothing. She doesn’t need to: I know she’s over my shoulder,
there,
a guardian angel, Djinn, or protective pagan faerie.
    My eyes tear up.
    “I miss—”
    “Shhh,” she whispers, and drapes sleep over my eyes.
    Then, just as quickly as it appears, the image vanishes and the white screen goes black.
    Three angels hover over the highway. They guard the bus. The bread box shape rolls down the two lane blacktop. They watch the gray beast lumber toward the morning sun, bright orange over the desert landscape.
    My head slumps against the greasy window.
    Sleep, death, bliss.

Chapter 7
    “S AN FRANCISCO, LAST STOP, SAN FRANCISCO!” “
You!
” A hand grabs my shoulder, shakes me. My ass squirts—
poop.
Yup. Baby Boy shit his pants. Bound to happen. Now it has. I held it in for as long as—“Get up! You gotta get off.”
    “Mom?” I rub my eyes and look up. No, not Mom, the bus driver. Not even—he’s the
maintenance
guy. His name tag. Earl. I push myself, roll off the seat. I’m so not ready to wake up. I’m so tired I could sleep for another hundred years, but Earl’s not leaving my seat until I vacate it.
    I step off the bus. The door slams. Some welcome. Isn’t this city famous for its hospitality? And sourdough bread? My stomach’s knotted with hunger. Where’s my loaf? While I’m at it: Where’s the Golden Gate Bridge? The “fabulous” Victorian architecture? And the streets filled with queer people? Just guessing but Gay Pride’s been rescheduled.
    Thus far, San Francisco is fog (gray), pigeons (gray) and concrete (gray and covered with white pigeon shit). The only people I’ve seen are a crazy woman pushing a stroller with a dog and dozens of office drones who wear dark blue business suits and carry briefcases.
    Two cops slowly cruise by on bicycles. They wear shorts. I’m distracted by their muscular legs. Their walkie-talkies squawk.Starfleet’s Calling. “All