Hi. I’m Albie. Today I chose the middle seat.

The bus hissed to a stop at the end of our road, a tired dragon that had done this way too many times. I climbed on behind Nomi. She peeled off instantly toward her friends. Of course she did.

Bus kids sort themselves out like birds on a wire. Big kids go to the back. Little kids sit up front.

I walked down the aisle, looking for middle. A kid near the middle had a backpack on the seat beside him. I slowed. He didn’t look up. The backpack stayed.

Rock peeked out of my coat pocket and blinked once. Slow.

I kept walking. Front was already filling. Back was already loud. There was one seat open near the back—too loud. One near the front—too visible.

The bus groaned forward. I stood there for half a second longer than I should have. Somebody bumped my elbow.

“Seat,” the driver called without looking.

I turned back toward the middle. The backpack was still there.

I sat anyway—not on the backpack, just close enough that it had to move. The kid looked up this time. We both stared at the backpack. He picked it up. Slow. I slid in.

The bus lurched. Somebody dropped a pencil. It rolled past a line of shoes and stopped against mine. I picked it up.

The kid beside me held out his hand. I gave it back. He nodded once. Not big. Just enough.

Rock blinked again.

Two big kids in the back argued about basketball. Three little kids up front argued about crayons. The middle hummed—not quiet, not loud. Just steady.

When we reached school, everybody moved at once—big kids first, then the rest of us in whatever order we fit.

Nomi spotted me outside. Her backpack thumped her knees. “Good seat?” she asked.

“Middle,” I said.

She nodded. “Solid.”

I felt the space where the backpack had been. Rock blinked once. Slow.

The bus door folded shut behind us.

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