The heat only increased the moisture on the window of the Greyhound bus at the York Street Station. As the seats filled up and the din died down he numbed out the noises and pulled out a book of short stories to read on this midwinter trip to Toronto. He sat next to the window wishing the seats were farther apart as he wedged his long legs behind the chair in front of him. The smell of diesel began to seep into the bus and the driver closed the door, putting the tickets away in his briefcase. He began his own repetitive journey.