Class 23’s affable, middle-aged teacher lay on the dashboard at the front of the bus, eerily still. His eyes and mouth were wide open. Through the bus’ windshield, where blood, bodies, and lost belongings had yet to pool, Kosuke could see the pebbly riverbed down below, past the treetops and the sloping rock.

Their teacher had been a geologist before going to work for public education. “Research is a lonely business,” the man liked to say, “I much prefer teaching students, especially ones who haven’t lost their sense of wonder.”

Yamago-sensei had been the one who’d introduced Kosuke to rock-climbing. Even with a life-long friend in Hajime, Kosuke still had trouble with making friends, to say nothing of group activities. Yamago-sensei’s encouragement to join and participate in the junior high rock-climbing club had been one of those little things that had snowballed into a so very unexpectedly big thing that had made all the difference in Kosuke’s life. It taught him to speak louder, and not be afraid of crowds, and to have confidence in his own two feet. It brought an end to stage fright and the feeling that he was always half a world away from everyone else, dreaming by the window seat in the back of the class, forgotten to the world. His teacher had helped him learn to be less shy, more proactive in group projects, and to dare to talk to girls even when Hajime wasn’t there to provide support.

And now he’s… gone.

Yamago-sensei’s blue eyes stared into the void, yet saw nothing, for they were empty and still.

Kosuke bit his lip. He sniffled and panted, pressing his face into his sleeve to daub up his tears so that his vision would stay clear.

He owed it to his teacher to see this through. He owed it to his classmates, and to himself, too.

With a shudder, keeping his gaze pointed straight ahead—whatever that meant here—Kosuke slid his grip down along the armrest, lowering himself, inch by inch, trying not to think of the corpses below.

Kosuke was pretty sure he’d figured out the rhythm of movements, but he couldn’t hear it over the sound of his terror.

The bus creaked as a gust of wind blew through the ravine. The breeze found its way through some of the bus’ shattered windows. The bloody ginkgo leaves soughed like a swarm of butterflies taking flight.

And then—Daikenja preserve him—Kosuke made it to the bottom. The last step was the most petrifying of all. It was like stepping on a frozen lake, only this lake was glass and the right half of it was speared through by the ginkgo. Blood and belongings littered the area in a grisly display. Kosuke held onto the final chair for as long as he could, delicately pressing his foot onto the unbroken part of the glass to tense his leg and feel if the glass would hold if he let go. But his hesitation ended itself. The burning in his arms forced him to let go.

He closed his eyes as he dropped down the last half meter to the bottom, bracing himself for the sound of shattering glass and the brief feeling of weightlessness before he fell to his death in the ravine below.

But death didn’t come.

He was on his hands and knees, trembling—terrified—but still so very much alive. The glass was slightly warm beneath his fingers. He thought he heard the tiniest cracking sounds.

Kosuke made sure to raise his head before he opened his eyes. He probably would have died of fear if he hadn’t. Even so, the experience was still surreal beyond words. The glass was like a cloud beneath him. It would have been amazing if it wasn’t so absolutely terrifying.

Kosuke crawled forward across the mound of bags and backpacks, mindful to keep his arms and legs as spread out as possible.

Blood dripped from the edges of the hole in the windshield. The tree rustled overhead. Bits of leaves and twigs slowly drifted down. Fallen bags and backpacks covered the windshield like scree. Fortunately, the pile was far away from the hole. Still, he had to be careful. One wrong step, and it was all over.

Eventually, Kosuke realized now would probably be a good time for him to say something. He looked up and spoke—though he didn’t dare yell.

“I… I made it.”

Kosuke hardly believed his own words. But then he noticed something: the glistening light was still there. It had followed him, surrounding him like a fishbowl. It was faint, and barely noticeable—it seemed to disappear altogether when it passed in front of the ginkgo’s golden boughs—but it was there.

Maybe it wasn’t a concussion. He didn’t know which possibility scared him more. But then Moriko yelled, and Kosuke snapped back to attention.

“Get my bag!” she said. “The satellite phone is in it!”

“W-Which one?” he asked.

“The green one! It’s got stars sewn into it.”

Kosuke gasped as he let go of a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Moriko’s bag was already within arm’s reach, and didn’t bear any obvious signs of damage. It also didn’t weigh very much.

He shouted: “I’ve got it!”

The sanest, safest thing would be to climb up off the windshield and onto the top—that is, back—of the nearest seats. Kosuke tensed his legs, ready to climb.

Somewhere near the edge of his imagination, Kosuke was pretty sure he heard a crack. It was a potato-chip sound; the tiniest crunch.

He froze stiff.

“Kosuke?” Hajime said—but Kosuke wasn’t listening.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

No, he was thinking. Thinking and thinking, frantic and desperate. And that’s when he realized it: how was he going to get back up? He’d need to stand on the glass with his full weight in order to do that.

I…

Quietly, Kosuke let himself cry. He hadn’t realized this was going to be a one-way climb. He clenched at the strap of Moriko’s bag. He felt nauseous.

“Moriko,” he said, hesitantly, “please… tell me what to do.” He gulped. “We don’t have any time to waste.”

“Zip it open and get out the satellite phone,” Moriko said. “It’s bright red, you can’t miss it—and press the power button.”

Kosuke was about to do so when a couple drops of moisture fell onto his head and trickled down his neck.

He touched the fluid and looked at his fingers.

Blood.

Kosuke wiped it on the glass as he bit his lip.

You do know what a power button looks like,” Moriko asked, “don’t you?”.

“Y-Yeah, I know what a power button looks like.”

“Moriko,” Aimi said, “you’re being kind of a bitch right now. Kosuke’s the one who’s saving our asses!”

“Shut up!” Koji hissed. “Shut up!”

Kosuke had no trouble finding the satellite phone. It was the only red thing inside Moriko’s green, star-studded bag. It was larger than he’d been expecting, and resembled the antique cellular phones people used when parents were his age. The red part of the phone was a shell of tough, protective plastic. Instead of a touch screen, it had an honest-to-goodness keypad, with hefty, rubbery buttons that sprung beneath his touch.

He pressed the power button. The backlight came on as the phone powered up.

It was working. It was working!

“Is the backlight on?” Moriko asked.

“Yes, it is!”

“How many bars is it getting?” she asked.

“Three out of four,” Kosuke said.

Kosuke glanced up as a couple cheers shot out from the bus. But only a couple.

He wished he could share them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kosuke could have sworn he saw the shell of light brighten and expand. It was very brief, just a flash.

I’ll figure it out later.

He craned his head up once more. “Can I dial 119?”

“Yes!” Moriko answered.

Nodding, Kosuke pecked the numbers, one after another.

“Is there a speakerphone?” he asked.

“Yeah. There’s a switch on the side.”

It took a bit of fumbling, but Kosuke found it and flicked it into position. Almost immediately, he frowned. “There’s no dial tone!”

Outside—somewhere overhead—a bird screeched.

“It doesn’t have a dial tone, Kosuke! There should be green and red lights flashing alternately near the top; that’s how you know it’s working.”

“I see them!” Kosuke said, “I see the—”

—The phone chirped. It was a distressing sound, like an injured bird.

Text flashed across the illuminated screen:

Error 203, Network Overload.

“It says Error 203,” Kosuke said. “Network… overload.” His words trailed off.

He was pretty sure that was a bad thing.

“Shit!” Moriko cursed.

The bus echoed with groans and cries of fear.

“W-What does that mean, Moriko?” Hajime asked.

“It means what it says,” Osamu said. “There is too much traffic on the satellite network.”

“Everyone with a satellite phone must be trying to use theirs right now.” Moriko said. “Shit! This is bad.”

“Our bus got face-fucked by a tree a hundred meters above a ravine,” Hiro yelled. “Of course it’s bad!”

“No,” Moriko said, “I meant… this wasn’t just any earthquake!”

“Can you access the satellite internet, Moriko?” Osamu asked, in between wretched groans.

“Yes!” she said. “Yes, it can! Kosuke!”

He shot his head up. “What?”

“You need to get out my smartphone and use it to set up a mirror for the satellite phone,” Moriko explained. “My phone has star decals on the case. This means you need to go into the satellite phone’s system menu and turn on a LAN.”

Kosuke started shivering. “Lan? Mirror? I—I don’t know what those are!”

“Calm down, Kosuke,” Hajime said, “just listen to Moriko.”

“How can you not know what a LAN is?” Moriko said.

“Well, I don’t!”

The bus creaked and groaned. Fragments of wood and rock sloughed off the ravine’s walls as the bus and tree tilted forward slightly. All of Kosuke’s classmates screamed.

Moriko tried to shout over the sounds of fear. “Listen, Kosuke! I’ll tell you the steps.”

“But what if I screw up?” Kosuke asked.

What if I cause the bus to fall? What if I destroy the satellite phone or Moriko’s bag? What if I run out of time?

Kosuke wished his teacher was still alive.

“You can do it,” Moriko said. “I believe in you. I’ll go slow. Just calm down. If you can do something as complicated as drawing, you can certainly do this. I trust you.”

And then Kosuke felt something pound in his chest. It was like his heart had slammed against his ribs. It was a shocking feeling. It shot up his arm like a lightning bolt, making his arms twitch, first the left, then the right.

The satellite phone fell from his grasp.

He felt heat. Incredible heat; it prickled; it maybe even crawled beneath his skin. It was like his veins were being pumped full of scalding hot industrial waste, or radioactive sludge, or churning magma.

Kosuke’s arm trembled uncontrollably.

The shell of light brightened and thickened. A two-meter wide orb came clear into view around him. It grew as it brightened, swelling into a spherical shell of swirling particles, the whole thing maybe four or five meters in diameter—a giant soap bubble, but of light rather than liquid.

This wasn’t a brain injury. This was real.

The others shouted.

“What’s that light?”

“Kosuke, are you alright?”

“Are we dead? Is this death?”

Kosuke tried to speak, but his breath was caught in his throat. He fell onto his hands and knees, trembling—as if gravity had intensified a thousand-fold.

Suddenly, Kosuke’s clothes—even his shoes—felt too tight on him, like they were five sizes too small. Pressure blossomed on his back and head, as if his spine was trying to rip out of his skin. He felt heavy and strong. Frighteningly strong.

It was like the heat within him was steaming its way out.

Cracks shot across the glass, spreading outward from beneath Kosuke’s knees.

Kosuke tried to get up, but his feet broke through the glass. The broken glass lacerated his clothes and skin. He roared as he fell backward into the sky. There was a brief moment of terrible pain, and then everything went black.