There must be someone at the wheel, because that's the way it has to be, with a bus. The bus knows where it's going, though, so as long as I keep my hands on the wheel, I'm free to watch. We get people from all kinds of places, here. Men with wide, transparent wings and gossamer gowns I need to warn to watch their step as they come aboard. Women with horns, fangs, and eyes that flash red when they catch me staring. Lines of little people who climb on each other's shoulders to reach the fare box. They all pay in different ways, too - in clattering coins and brightly-colored bills with symbols on them I can't read, in whispered secrets and blown kisses and drops of silvery blood. They don't need me to tell them when to disembark, thankfully, because I don't know where we go. The bus takes care of it. It welcomes everyone inside and gets them where they need to go. I've only known the bus to reject one would-be passenger, only once in all the time I've been the driver. They looked like a little kid, standing there on the curb, with golden curls and a suit the same shimmering hue, hands behind their back. The bus stopped in front of them, like it always did, but the doors did not open. The pause went on long enough for me to wonder how to open the door, but then the bus began to move again, and as we pulled away, the kid's arms moved, and I saw the long piece of metal, sharp and serrated, perfect for slashing tires.