Глен Хиршберг - Transitway

The most astonishing part, in the end, was the absence of blood. Each shining sliver of Q seemed to shoot straight up, like a spark ejected from a fire, and for that one moment, all the things he was and knew seemed to hover in the air, all jumbled up, a kaleidoscope of bone and books and beer and muscle and love of kids and quiet, seething, desperation. And then it vanished. Every speck.

Falling forward onto his hands, Ferdinand crouched, rocking, blowing heaving breaths through his lips. Tasting the fouled, poisoned air. Remembering.

Then, slowly, he stood, turned. The bus had come, was sliding into the station with a weirdly human breath that seemed to echo all the way across the endless lanes of endless traffic.

Black hair. His wife had had black hair. She'd worn a clip in it, every single day, right at the base of her neck. Clenching his jaw, Ferdinand tried to remember more. But nothing came. Not now. Not yet. Soon. He'd see them soon. Petra. Julio.

Or else he wouldn't. Regardless, he was going. Either way, he wouldn't be alone anymore. He hadn't ever been, not in the way he'd imagined all these…however many years it had been. Years, though. He allowed himself one quiet prayer: That the Transitway had taken Q, too. That all ways out of this place led somewhere, or at least to the same nowhere. Drying his eyes on the drooping sleeves of his ridiculous blue shirt, Ferdinand stepped toward the bus as the doors sighed open.