Buffalo Central Terminal

Buffalo Central Terminal, the sign said.

Was that a place? Or a state of mind?, he wondered. He carefully grabbed his overnight bag and laptop backpack as he began to lumber down the narrow aisle of the bus. He turned as the bus pulled away, only to catch grit and diesel fumes in his face.

He reassured himself that this assignment was necessary— that he was on his last $385 of cash in the bank—and the credit cards were all maxed out. But, why Buffalo?

His ride was waiting across the street. The driver was a cute, perky assistant-type, and she waved to him. He wasn’t sure how he had been recognized, but maybe most of the folks getting off the bus weren’t carrying a laptop case.

As he came up to the car, she inquired cheerfully “How was the trip?”

“Uneventful”, he replied. He’d learned that the best trips were the trip for which you didn’t have a story, and so far, this was one of them.

Pity, because that’s exactly what his job was. Write a story about the trip. And he had seven days to finish it.

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