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Randy pushes ticket, change and fake ID onto the metal tray. “Ticket’s nonrefundable. The bus is boarding at Gate Two.”

I count the change. I fumble putting it back. The laminate falls out, tumbles to the floor. Before I can, the Rent-A-Cop picks it up and examines the picture. My stomach drops.

“Excuse me,” I say. “That’s mine.”

“What’s yours,” he says, suggesting nothing belongs to me.

“That picture. It’s my mom. It’s the only one I 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.

“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 points bulletin! Be on the lookout for an Arab boy who answers to Ahmed! He’s escaped from Serenity Ridge! He also answers to Ben!”

The cops roll forward. Even if I’m hearing voices and imagined the Ahmed APB, I know they’ll snatch me if they see me. Intuition. I. Gots. To. Go. I step around a corner, vanish into the shadows and escape my paranoia. I look for a pay phone. But that just leads me back into the dirty bus station. It’s the same setup as Vegas minus the slot machines. Same trash, same bums sleeping on the same benches. “Hell,” I’ll testify (Hallelujah! Praise Jesus! Or whoever you’re into, just get me out of here), “is The Bus Station.”

There. Pay phone. My grubby hand digs into my grubby pocket and fishes for the scrap of paper. I hold it up. I read the telephone number and scrawled instructions. “Hi, my name is Ben.” Any chance I’ll have to permanently escape Serenity Ridge rests in these seven digits—and my new, generic American identity. I chant my name: Ben. BenBenBen. A Ben in the Road.

I lift the receiver, drop two quarters and
carefully
(quarters being hard to come by right now) punch in the number. Rings one, two, three—“Click, the Page Net account you’re trying to reach is out of service. Message four four—”

I replace the phone and slump back against the casket-shaped booth. I’m fucked and so tired, I’m ready to give up and call my father. His number’s the only one I know by heart. Even if I knew it, my real mother’s number would be unlisted. Stuart? He’s the one who got me into this mess. Think. Who to call. I pick up the phone and dial 4-1-1. “Directory assistance, city and listing please.”

“Oh, um …” I blank. Why am I calling? I stand there, hold the phone and breath. Very stalkerish.

“Hello? Hello?”

I imagine the operator asks, Is this an emergency? I want her to ask because I want to tell someone, even a stranger, “In fact it is an emergency. I escaped from Serenity Ridge, a Nevada Residential Treatment Facility where I’ve been locked up and subjected to treatments meant to turn me from gay to straight.”

“Page Net,” I remember. “San Francisco.”

“Please hold for—” The operator cuts herself off. Left, a flash of blue. Cops! I drop the phone. CALM. DOWN. Not a cop. Businessman carrying a briefcase and dressed in a dark blue suit (another uniform). I’m surrounded by clones. 4-1-1. Redial.

“Page Net, howmayIhelpyou?” I read the number. “How may I help you, Ms. Smith?”

“I have a question about my bill. I wanted to double-check the home phone number with the one you had on file?” I hear my upturned voice and wince. I sound like a girl. I’m worried I sound like I believe my own question.

“One moment, plea—” The operator’s voice is gone; another automated voice comes on and recites the number. I drop my last coins in the slot, dial and listen. Ring one, two, three … ten. I’m about to hang up / give up.
Click.
The line picks up.

“Hi, I’m—”

Bleep!
A machine. Silence. Maybe someone’s listening. Maybe there is a place. Maybe it’s safe. Maybe—

“Hi, this is, uh … me. Ben. I’m at the bus station. Downtown? Someone gave me your number—well, your other number—but it was out of order. Anyway, I’m gonna wait here. Um, well, I guess I’ll hide in the men’s room. Last stall. On the right. I’ll stay there till you show up. I’m wearing orange kicks and a safari hat.”

I stretch out my message. I hope, if I keep talking, someone will hear me and pick up.

Beep!

The machine cuts me off. I hang up.

L
eft, a big man steps around a corner and walks toward me. His look shouts, “Bounty Hunter.” I look around. There’s nowhere to go. I am trapped. I step back, duck into the men’s room, run to the last stall. I could be on a spaceship: It’s one of those industrial bathrooms. The reflective silver surfaces are scratched. I close the door, careful not to make a sound. Then, I wait, and stare at my schizo-scratch’up’d reflection.

Rubber sneaks skid-screech on the floor. I look through the crack in the door: a boy. He looks around the bathroom. Too late, he realizes, “I’m trapped.” I see it on his face: There’s nowhere to hide. Dead. End. We hold our breath. A second set of footsteps breaks the quiet.
Click-click-click.
Official sounding. Dress shoes. Or, Shirley Temple.

I peek through a crack. A man, his back is turned away from me, grabs the boy and holds a knife to his neck.

“I want my money’s worth.” He pushes the boy against the sink and yanks down his jeans. The bunched-up denim pools at his ankles. He tries to move, but the thick fabric stops him.

The man squeezes the boy’s neck. The trench coat cloaks their bodies. I know what’s happening coz I see the boy’s face in the broken mirror. His eyes are shut, his mouth screwed up with pain.

“Ah!” The man’s head drops back, his body shudders. The
boy’s hand grips the sink. The man steps back and zips up. The boy drops to the floor. Blood and shit dribble out of his butt.

The man ignores the boy and reaches for soap and water. Calm, he washes his hands. The boy looks up. Our eyes meet. He puts up his arm.

“Help—” the boy rasps, a strangled cry for help. His arm drops, dead next his limp, lifeless body.

The man turns, away from the sink, to the stall. I can’t see his face, just his eyes. Blank, they’re android blue and tell me he feels … nothing. For the boy, for what he just did.

“Ah!” I cry. I can’t help it. It’s just a peep, but the sound gets the man’s attention. He grabs the knife and steps toward the stalls.

My heart beats so loud, I’m sure he can hear it. There’s nowhere for me to hide.

Click. Click. Click.

He walks down the line, tapping the knife on each stall door.

Click. Click. Click.

He walks the line, opening each door.

I squat on the seat. His shadow moves along the floor. He stops, one stall from mine.

Creak …

The door swings open, its shadow moving over the floor. This is way worse than any movie. I can’t pick up the remote and press Pause. Real life, I need to act.

Click. Click. Click.

The man’s heels tap dance on the floor. My stall’s last in the line. He knows. I know that he knows. And he knows that I know. Both of us know. Someone saw and now they’re hidden in the last stall.

Click—

The door handle turns. Slow. Time. To. Die.

No.

Last second, I dip and slip under to the next stall, moving back as he steps forward—

Click—

The knife taps, metal-on-metal door.

Tap—

I slip under the partition. The safari hat’s knocked off—

Creak—

The door opens. I don’t know what’s worse. Capture, rape or death—or the knowledge right before one or all happens. I’m starting to believe death
is
my destiny. Another runaway, found on a bus station in a pool of blood.

He raises the knife, ready to kill, and I know he will if he sees the hat. Act, Ahmed, you have one chance. Live or die, you choose—

I reach, grab it—

And the door slams,
WHOMP!
Heels
click-click-click,
he barges into the empty stall. The shadow turns and turns and turns, an animal furious about losing its prey. Or, a ballerina, spinning along in a jewelry box, crazed by the music.

Ballerina or predator, IDK because I’m gone.

And this time, I don’t need anyone to tell me.

I don’t look back.

I
know I can’t ask for help. I just follow a cute guy to an escalator. It stretches so far down I can’t see where it ends. Down, the bottom, a train pulls into the station. Orange and white doors slide open. Black letters spell out CASTRO. Castro’s Ground Zero for The Gays. For safety (or, something like it) the Castro’s my Number One destination. I hope.

I step inside. The doors slide shut. My eyes meet blue robot eyes.

The train pulls away. I
know
him. I’ve seen those blue eyes. But where? I want to take another look. Maybe he wasn’t bathroom stall man. It’s official, I’m losing my mind.

“Civic Station!
Ciiiivick
Station! Next stop! Civic Station.”

I jump off. I figure, I’m safer above ground than trapped underground. The escalator’s slow. I hurry, up-up-up, pushing past more men in dark blue suits.

“‘Scuse me, ’scuse me.”

At street level, I see a sign: YOUTH DROP-IN SHELTER. Yeah! Safety! Salvation! Forget the Castro, I don’t need you. I cross the street without looking. I enter. I
belong
here. If anyone’s a Drop-In Youth who needs shelter, I am.

The receptionist is a black girl with cornrows. She sits at the front desk, regal as a queen on her throne. She doesn’t look up from the computer screen. Scrabble.

“How may I help you?” she says, the voice of an off-duty gospel singer. I guess it’s not totally obvious who I
am
: a runaway teen ISO shelter. She’s confused me with the cable guy? I bite my lip. I’m outside, on the street. I need to get back there, behind the Plexiglas and locked door.

“Oh, um, I’m here about shelter?”

She looks me over, like I’m some reality TV reject, calculating statement with the obvious fact of my youth. The phone rings. She answers it and smiles. I can tell, she’ll forget about me.

I make my helpless face. It’s not tough to pull off. I
am
helpless.

I try not to, then I do: look over my shoulder. Is he outside? The stalker-rapist? Easy, he could reach inside, grab my arm, snatch—

BZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

The door clicks. I step inside. It’s official: Ahmed’s off the street.