Some patrons were apparently waiting to meet the bus from Salt Lake City; others were waiting to depart on that bus or another. Two young homosexu­als furtively shared a cigarette by the water fountain. A cowboy sitting in the corner strummed a guitar and softly sang a love song. When he finished, the citizens of the bus station clapped for him, which he acknowl­edged with a nod of his Stetson and a faint blush. I smiled as I found a seat with an excellent view, next to the old-­fashioned coffee machine that had a yellowed “Out of Order” sign on it. This was going to be a good night, complete with free entertainment.

The clientele changed—a slow, steady turnover.

Drunks came in out of the cold to curl up next to the heaters. Women and children came in just in time to buy their tickets and board buses, and not a single one tarried. Old alcoholics, young people on drugs, homosexuals, social outcasts, the deformed and de­prived, dirty codgers reminiscent of Earl Foster—they all came in, some stayed, some left. Police came every hour to look in and trade nods with the ticket seller. The old ticket seller was replaced by a younger, huskier man, obviously well equipped to deal with any problems that should arise among his clientele, and ever-­so-­slowly, the complexion of the bus station changed.

At eleven o’clock, five greasy-­haired, leather­-jacketed young men came in and began to berate and deride the station’s deni­zens. Within fifteen minutes, the ticket seller had spoken with them twice, but the damage had been done. All the people, save a very few, had left, scattered to their second choice of hangouts, I assumed, leaving the station relatively empty. Then, as if they knew the schedule of police rounds, the quintet fired up their motorcycles and were gone, just before the police arrived for their next routine check. The result was pitiful: Three drunks slept in the back corner near the restrooms, one passionate couple huddled in mysterious posture under a plaid blanket, and I sat next to the coffee machine, feeling as if I had just been robbed.

I knew the night was not finished. Something told me that action would yet take place. I stretched my legs, had a drink of water, checked the schedule, and noted that there were to be no more arrivals until one-­thirty, when three buses were due within ten minutes.

I reflected for a few moments on Lewis. He would have arrived at his parents’ home by now, and was sleeping, prob­ably, or sitting up talking and drinking with his father. He would have been crying, and his eyes would be puffed and his hair uncombed. I could see him, in his green-­plaid wool shirt, trying to face his loss like a man, sitting next to his father, who, no doubt, made him feel like a little boy.