In the city, buses did not stop. They slowed near curbs, sometimes, if traffic was kind, but stopping had been voted inefficient three councils ago and eventually became one of those civic facts people complained about without expecting to change. By the time Mara was old enough to commute, “catching the bus” meant exactly that.

She stood at the corner of Pike and Seventeenth with twelve other passengers, all of them stretching as casually as people waiting for coffee. A painted yellow line on the sidewalk marked the Approved Acceleration Zone, though everyone knew the paint ended too soon in wet weather.

The Number Seven came around the corner with its doors already open and its engine making the confident noise of a public service that had never apologized. Mr. Bell, who worked two floors above Mara and had excellent form for a man in dress shoes, adjusted his tie and checked the traffic light. “Little slick today,” he said.

“Bakery steam,” Mara said, eyeing the damp patch near the curb. The city blamed most boarding accidents on bakery steam, even on streets without bakeries. It was easier than admitting the buses were still going thirty miles an hour.

The driver gave two friendly taps of the horn, which meant good morning and also jump now or walk. The crowd began jogging alongside the bus with the orderly urgency of people who had done this since childhood. Mara matched speed beside the front doors while a woman behind her shouted, “Single file, please, some of us have meetings.”

Mr. Bell went first, planting his umbrella against the curb and swinging himself aboard with practiced dignity. His left shoe clipped the fare scanner on the way in, which counted as payment under city rules. “Watch the puddle,” he called back, already smoothing his jacket.

Mara saw the puddle, hated the puddle, and used it anyway. Her foot splashed down, her knee bent, and she launched toward the open doors with her commuter bag flapping behind her like a panicked bird. A hand caught her sleeve before she became late in a more permanent way.

“Nice recovery,” said the woman who pulled her in. She wore a navy blazer, running flats, and the tired look of someone who had already transferred twice. Mara tapped her card against the reader and said, “Thanks, I’ve been working on my diagonal entry.”

Inside, the bus was crowded but normal for a Tuesday. Two schoolchildren compared bruises from gym class, where they had started the semester with basic curb timing. An older woman held a grocery bag in one arm and a toddler in the other, saying, “You don’t jump at the bus, sweetheart, you jump where the bus is going to be.”

The driver announced, “Next approach: Fifth and Alder, moderate puddling, curb visibility poor.” Several passengers groaned, not because they objected to the route, but because Fifth and Alder had a reputation.

At the next corner, a man in a gray coat sprinted alongside the bus with a bouquet under one arm and panic in both knees. “Open wider,” he shouted. The driver replied, “Sir, this is public transit, not a rescue service,” but did open the doors another two inches.

The man jumped, missed the first pole, caught the second, and spun into the aisle with his flowers mostly intact. Everyone gave the brief respectful clap reserved for socially acceptable recklessness. “Anniversary?” Mara asked, because the bouquet had landed against her shoulder.

“My wife said if I loved her, I’d make the express,” he said, breathless. The woman in the navy blazer nodded as if this was a reasonable marital standard. “Good for her,” she said.

By downtown, the bus had collected most of the city’s ambition and several unsecured coffee cups. A businessman near the front practiced his exit stance, rocking gently on his heels. The toddler pointed at him and whispered, “Is he brave?”

“No,” the grandmother said. “He works in accounting.”

Mara’s stop was coming up, and she felt the usual flutter of civic anxiety. Getting on was one thing, but getting off required commitment, timing, and a willingness to trust whatever the city had painted on the sidewalk last summer. Mr. Bell noticed her shifting her weight and said, “Remember, don’t look at the curb.”

“Look past the curb,” Mara said. “Land into the day.”

The driver called, “Maple Street, single-file departures only, crosswind from the bakery.” Mara stepped into position as the doors opened onto a blur of pavement, pigeons, and one man waiting with a stopwatch. She jumped, landed hard, stumbled twice, and recovered beside a newspaper box advertising premium ankle insurance.

Behind her, the bus roared on without apology, already offering its doors to the next cluster of perfectly normal people sprinting for work. Mara straightened her jacket and checked the time. She was early by four minutes, which was almost suspicious.