Buses are not intended to be driven fast. They are built for power, not speed, and pushing a bus to go faster than its design supports reminds CB of shaking the contents of a cereal box very hard in order to get at the prize at the bottom. So when the ground tremors start, he thinks it’s the bus.
He takes one hand off the steering wheel, reaching into his trenchcoat pocket, and fishes out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Jenny, standing in the bus stairwell, looks at him crossly.
“You’re smoking now?”
CB manages to thumb the end of a cigarette out of the pack, sticks it in his mouth, and pulls the rest away. “Don’t want the bus to break down just yet.”
“Just yet?” A note of incredulity creeps into her voice.
“I don’t care what happens to it once we get where we’re going,” CB says. He replaces the cigarettes, and takes out his lighter.