The route terminated at East Village train station by Benedict House, so named to conceal the building was really a halfway house for addicts on the mend. Then the route reversed back the same way. Three hours after I’d swung the bus out the gates, I drove back into the depot for a break, before repeating the journey all over again.

What most people would consider a mundane job—same streets, same view, same stops and starts—I enlivened by getting to know my regulars. In fact, I did more than get to know them, more than transport them from A to B. I helped them. I changed lives.

They never understood, of course, why on the odd occasion their commute left them happier, more content than when they’d boarded. Maybe they thought the change in mood was due to my friendly smile, or the chance to relax while someone else drove, or that anywhere was better than where they’d just left.

But the difference was me. My touch. My gift to them, delivered without a trace, without a sound, without anybody knowing why suddenly the world seemed a brighter place; the troubles they carried when they left their homes that morning now not so heavy.

I didn’t need a thank you or to leave a florist’s calling card: Here’s a gift because I can, because I want to make the world a better place. I didn’t need acknowledgment; all I needed were their smiles, their improved moods, and to see extra bounce in their steps as though they no longer toted that emotional backpack.

Troubles. They stick to skin like glue, like gum to the sole of a shoe. They slide into the crevices of your heart, slither into your veins, and tug at you from the inside until they become something dark and heavy and not so easy to shake.

The length of time you allow them to take up residence, that’s what makes all the difference between the good, the bad, and the ugly days. Sure, you can brush them aside—and most good folk usually do—but what gets you is the sometimes; the sometimes when shrugging off troubles may not be so simple.

I took away the sometimes.

Dawson River was my favorite stretch. Some days the word fine just wasn’t enough. The sun rising, yellow and pink, a present to those awake, and the sun setting over glistening water, warm gold, a splendid vista that made you believe in all things good. Some days the river didn’t need the sun to shine. Rain splashing its surface, urged small white-tipped waves to rise up like dancing handkerchiefs. I knew this river like a friend. We shared a secret; in fact, we were allies.

This five-fourteen afternoon run was my favorite. Not just because of Mariana, either. My best work was done in these hours. If people ever needed relief from their troubles, the time was after a hard day’s work. But, for whatever reason on that day, most passengers seemed to feel the weight of life more than usual. I guess that’s why I did what I did, before I’d thought the whole thing through.