Stop Eight

My mom takes the bus home with me every day. Today she can't come. Today I go alone.

I sit at the back and I count the stops. One. Two. Three. The bus goes across the river. Four. Five. My stop is number eight. I hope I can find it.

At stop six a lot of people get on. They stand in front of me. Now I can't see any windows. Is this seven? Is this eight? My hands are cold.

I stand up. I walk to the front of the bus.

“Stop eight,” the driver says. “This one is yours.”

The doors open. My mom is on the street. She waves at me.

“Good job,” she says.

I look back at the bus. The driver knows my stop. He counts the stops too.