Cold morning wind whipped through the bare branches of the oak trees lining the quiet suburban street. Jackson pulled the collar of his black faux-leather jacket higher around his neck, wishing he had worn a thicker shirt underneath. Still, looking cool was far more important than being warm, especially when you had a reputation to maintain. Standing on the cracked concrete of the corner bus stop, he rolled his shoulders to ease the tension in his back. He was fifteen years old, a high school sophomore, and the undisputed man of his household. Ever since his father walked out three years ago, Jackson had made it his personal mission to project an image of absolute strength and independence. He didn't need anyone's help, and he certainly didn't want anyone's pity. No one messed with him at Oak Creek High. He spent hours practicing a flat, intimidating stare in his bedroom mirror, ensuring that kids at school knew to keep their distance. His heavy combat boots clicked against the pavement as he shifted his weight, his backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. He liked the weight of the boots; they made him feel grounded, powerful, and ready to face any challenge. Glancing down at a muddy puddle near his feet, he checked his reflection to make sure his hair was perfectly styled. Dark hair, a sharp jawline, and an expression that screamed *don't even think about it* stared back at him. Perfect. He was ready for whatever the high school threw at him today, confident in his ability to handle anything on his own. Suddenly, his pocket buzzed with a sharp, rhythmic vibration. Jackson fished out his phone, the screen webbed with fine cracks from a skate park fall last month. A text message from his mother was waiting for him, sending a strange jolt of anxiety through his chest. Frowning, he tapped the notification. His mother worked the night shift at the county hospital, and her messages were usually a chaotic jumble of typos, but this one was particularly bizarre and difficult to decipher. "Have fun out there today, sweetie!" the message began. "O didn't bus like preschool..." Jackson stared at the screen, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. The text seemed to trail off into a series of random characters and a weird emoji that didn't fit her usual style at all. "What is she even talking about?" he muttered to himself, his breath pluming in the cold morning air. Preschool was a lifetime ago, a distant memory of finger paints and forced naps. He barely remembered those days, let alone any bus ride associated with them. He typed a quick reply: *Mom, what does this mean? I'm waiting for the high school bus right now. Is everything okay?* Pressing send, he watched the little loading circle spin endlessly on the screen. A red exclamation mark popped up next to the message, indicating a network failure. He cursed under his breath, shaking the phone as if that would magically summon a signal, but the bars in the top corner remained completely dead. Rumbling in the distance broke his concentration. Jackson shoved the useless device back into his pocket and looked down the street, expecting to see the familiar yellow shape of his morning transit. A yellow shape rounded the corner, its headlights cutting through the early morning fog. Jackson took a step forward, expecting the massive, dented high school transit bus that usually smelled of cheap body spray and stale energy drinks. Instead, a strangely compact vehicle rattled toward him. This bus was much smaller, with reinforced steel bumpers and dark, heavily tinted windows that blocked any view of the passengers inside. It looked more like an armored transport than a school bus, and faded decals of cartoon animals were plastered along the sides. Screeching to a halt, the bus stopped directly in front of him. Jackson hesitated, his instincts whispering that something was seriously off about this ride. The proportions of the vehicle seemed entirely wrong, almost cartoonish in their bulkiness, and the engine hummed with an unusual, high-pitched whine. Pneumatic brakes hissed loudly, releasing a cloud of hot, metallic-smelling steam over his boots. The folding doors creaked open with a slow, mechanical groan that sounded like a warning. Stepping up onto the black rubber stairs, Jackson instantly felt a wave of regret hit his stomach. The air inside the vehicle didn't smell like high school at all. It smelled like baby powder. Sweet, cloying lavender wipes and a heavy layer of chemical disinfectant filled his nostrils, making him want to gag. He blinked against the harsh dome lights overhead, looking around the cabin in utter bewilderment. "Well, it's about time, Danielle," a booming voice barked from the driver's platform. Jackson froze, his foot hovering over the top step. Standing before him was a towering woman in a neon-orange safety vest. She had a face carved from granite, her eyes magnified to terrifying proportions behind thick, wire-rimmed spectacles. A heavy metal clipboard was tucked under her massive arm, and her expression was completely unyielding. "Excuse me?" Jackson said, his voice dropping to his deepest, most adult register. "I think you have the wrong stop. I'm Jackson." "Don't you start with your little stories this morning, young lady," the woman snapped, checking off a name on her clipboard with an aggressive flick of her wrist. "We are already five minutes behind schedule, and I am not in the mood for your daily tantrum. Get on board." Before he could protest, the pneumatic doors slammed shut behind him with a deafening crash. The heavy metal lock bar slid into place with a definitive clunk, sealing off his only escape route. Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in Jackson's chest. He spun around, grabbing the handle of the folding doors and pulling with all his might. They didn't budge even an inch, locked tight by the mechanical system. "Hey! Let me out!" he yelled, his carefully cultivated tough-guy persona vanishing instantly. "This is a mistake! I'm fifteen! I go to the high school! Let me off!" "Sit down, Danielle," the woman commanded, her voice echoing off the metal walls of the bus with absolute, crushing authority. Turning around, Jackson looked down the aisle, hoping to find a group of older kids who could explain what kind of sick joke this was. Silence answered him. Row after row of high-backed, cushioned vinyl seats filled the small bus. Inside them sat several toddlers, none of them older than four. They were all strapped into massive, padded car seats, staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes. One little boy in a dinosaur hoodie was drooling onto his chest, while a girl in pigtails clutched a plush rabbit, her thumb tucked firmly in her mouth. "This is insane," Jackson whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I don't belong here. I need to get off this bus right now." "I said, sit down!" the woman roared, stepping toward him with terrifying speed. Jackson tried to dodge past her, but she moved with the practiced agility of a seasoned warden. Her massive hand clamped onto his shoulder, her fingers digging through his leather jacket like iron claws. She hoisted him off his feet with shocking ease. Jackson gasped, his boots dangling inches above the floor as she swung him around. "Let go of me!" he thrashed, kicking his legs, but she held him as easily as if he were a bag of groceries, completely ignoring his frantic struggles. With a heavy thud, she slammed him down into the very front seat, directly behind the driver's partition. The seat was incredibly small, designed for a preschooler, forcing his knees up to his chin in a humiliating, cramped posture that made him feel entirely helpless. "No devices, no screaming, and no running in the aisles," she lectured, looming over him like an angry mountain. "You know the rules, Danielle. If you can't behave, you won't get your morning juice box, and I will personally call your mother." "I am not Danielle!" he screamed, tears of sheer frustration pricking his eyes. "Look at me! I'm a guy! I have a mustache! I wear a size ten shoe! You have the wrong person!" Quietly, the bus driver put the vehicle into gear, the engine roaring to life with a deep, rumbling vibration that shook the entire frame. Jackson looked at the back of the driver's head, but the man didn't even turn around. He was a silent accomplice to this madness, steering the bus away from the curb and down the foggy street. Desperately trying to scramble out of the tiny seat, Jackson found his knees catching on the hard metal barrier in front of him. He was completely trapped, his heart racing so fast he felt dizzy, his mind racing to find a way out of this living nightmare. Pulling a set of thick, green nylon straps from behind the cushion, Mrs. Gable smiled a cold, victorious smile that promised absolute compliance. With a metallic click, Mrs. Gable snaps a heavy-duty, five-point safety harness over Jackson's shoulders, locking it with a key she slips into her pocket.

Chapter 1: The Wrong Yellow Bus