The Jacket Still Hanging by the Door
The alarm went off at 4:45 on Monday morning, just as it had for thirty-four years. Robert reached across the nightstand and turned it off before remembering that he no longer needed to get out of bed. His last day driving the city bus had been Friday. There was no route waiting for him, no dispatcher expecting him, and no line of passengers standing along the familiar streets. He lay quietly for a moment, listening to the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. Then he got up anyway, made coffee, and sat at the table while the rest of the neighborhood slept. His blue work jacket was still hanging beside the back door. He had worn it through winter mornings, summer storms, and thousands of ordinary conversations. Its pockets held an old pen, a folded receipt, and a pair of work gloves. He had planned to wash it and put it away, but something made him leave it where it was. For years, Robert had known exactly where he belonged at six o'clock in the morning. Now he was sitting in his ow...