River Sanchez's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

River Sanchez sat on the edge of the motel bed and told Soleia, again, that Cedar would not just skip school. Cedar rode the same bus every morning across sixty miles of Nevada desert. He texted River from the back seat every day at 7:42. Today the text never came. River had driven out here on a hunch, dragging Soleia with him, and had been calling Cedar's phone for six hours straight. The phone rang in his hand. Not Cedar. The screen showed the sheriff's number under a cartoon turtle. River answered and listened. A deputy had found the bus jackknifed against a utility pole out on the county road. No driver. No kids. No blood. Just an empty bus with the door hanging open. River stood up so fast the phone case slipped from his fingers and hit the carpet. Soleia was already grabbing the keys. They ran down the outside stairs of the two-story motel, past the buzzing sign. The concierge stood behind the front desk in his teal cap and suspenders, humming. He waved at River like they were old friends. "Off to see the sights?" Martin asked. "They found the bus," River said. "Empty. On the highway." Martin's smile dropped. His hand went flat on the counter, then slid off. He said he had linens to fold and disappeared through a door behind the desk before River could ask anything else. Soleia watched the door swing shut. She looked at River. River looked back. The crime scene sat twenty minutes out, past the last gas station. Yellow tape ran a loose loop around the bus. Chief Suocipsus stood by her cruiser, arms crossed, talking to two deputies. She barely glanced at the bus. When River told her his best friend rode that route, she said the district was handling it and that he should go back to the motel. She did not ask Cedar's name. She did not write anything down. She turned her back and told the deputies to start packing up. River waited until the cruiser pulled onto the shoulder and rolled off. Soleia lifted the tape. They climbed the bus steps. The inside smelled like hot vinyl and something sour underneath. Backpacks lay in the aisle. Notebooks. A shoe. River worked row by row until he found it under the third seat on the left: a brown backpack, worn at the corners, with a keychain Cedar had made in seventh grade. River unzipped the front pocket. Cedar's phone was inside, off, the screen cracked in a fresh star pattern. Soleia said what River was already thinking. The chief wanted them to stop looking. The concierge knew something. And Cedar had left this bus without the one thing he never went anywhere without.