The airport doors hissed open, and Trash stepped out into the warm chaos of the city. Cars honked. People spoke into little boxes held to their ears. Wheels rolled on pavement. Everything moved too fast.

Trash hugged the bag tighter to her chest, her hands furiously wiping away the tears running down her face and stood on the edge of the sidewalk. The woman said the buses. She didn’t need an ID when she took the bus before; maybe she can take one again to go further.

But she couldn’t read the signs.

Her eyes flicked between the metal posts with words on them, the signs plastered across glass buildings, the flashing screens that lit up with places she didn’t understand. None of it made sense.

Trash took a shaky breath and picked someone. A woman standing near a bench, holding a coffee and scrolling on her phone.

“Excuse me,” Trash whispered.

The woman looked up, startled.

Trash kept her head down. “Can you tell me where the buses go from?”

The woman’s brow furrowed. “Like… the city buses?”

Trash shook her head quickly. “The ones that go far away. The ones that leave the city.”

“Oh.” The woman glanced behind her, then pointed down the street. “That way. There’s a Greyhound station about eight or nine blocks down. On Oak and Fourth, I think. You’ll see a big blue sign. You can't miss it.”

Trash didn’t know what “eight or nine blocks” meant. Or where Oak or Fourth were. But she whispered, “Thank you,” and started walking in the direction the woman had pointed.

She passed glass doors and people in suits. Street vendors selling meat on sticks and yellow bread. A man playing music with a bucket and some spoons. Her shoulder throbbed with every step, her back ached, but she didn’t stop.

The city was loud. Bigger than anything she’d ever imagined. But it wasn’t cruel, not yet. It didn’t know her.

When she saw the big blue sign and the image of the bus on it, her knees nearly buckled with relief.

She stumbled into the station, blinking at the overhead lights. Rows of chairs. People with backpacks. Giant posters with unreadable words and numbers.

Trash stood near a wall and watched.

There was a long desk like the one at the airport. People walked up and spoke to a woman behind it. Some showed cards. Some paid paper. She waited.

When the crowd thinned, she stepped forward and approached the counter.

The woman behind it was older, her brown hair streaked with grey, her smile patient. “Where you headed, sweetheart?”

“Far away,” Trash said softly.

The woman blinked, then leaned closer. “Can you tell me the name of the city?”

Trash didn’t answer. She dug out her envelope. “How far can this get me?”

The woman’s brows lifted slightly, but she didn’t comment. She opened the envelope and counted quickly.

“Alright, you’ve got enough to get far, yeah,” she said gently. “We got a bus heading out to Denver tonight. It’s long, but you’ll be out of this place for sure. That work for you?”

Trash nodded. Denver meant nothing to her, but it was far. That was what mattered.

“ID?” the woman asked.

Trash froze. Her eyes went wide. Her throat closed.

The woman looked at her carefully, then lowered her voice. “It’s alright, sweetheart. You don’t have one, huh?”

Trash shook her head.

“Okay,” the woman said. “We won’t make a fuss. Give me a second.”

The woman printed a bus ticket and handed it to her, along with the remainder of the money in the envelope back.

Tears stung Trash’s eyes again, but she blinked them away and whispered, “Thank you.”

She sat where the woman pointed, her hands gripping the edge of the seat. She didn’t relax. Not yet.

But for the first time, she didn’t feel like she was running. She was moving forward.