A jogger in skintight running gear is staring at me. “Aren’t you the one who—”

“No,” I say.

I’m not sure if she believes me, but thankfully she shrugs and turns back toward the scene unfolding in front of us.

When the first police officers arrive, I feel comfortable enough to slip away. The boy will tell them about the man from the bus. The bystanders will confirm the description, and they will find this man and hopefully put him behind bars, where he belongs. I could stick around and share my side of things, but what’s the point? They’ll just have more questions, and I’ve had enough of those for today.

Besides, I don’t talk to cops.

As I walk away, I take one last look at the young mother. The police are leading her back to the station. She’s clutching both her children to her, and it looks as though she’ll never let them go again. Good. Her gaze skips past me, not recognizing me from the bus. That’s good, too. I have my own child to deal with.

It’s cold and I’m suddenly very hungry. I could eat a steak but settle for a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of watery coffee from a deli nearby. In the bathroom I wash my face and finger-comb my hair. I wince at the reflection in the mirror. Is this the face an estranged daughter would want to see? Maybe not, but it’s the best I can do under the circumstances.

I wait for the streets to thin out and then head for the Queen streetcar. On the streetcar I stop thinking about that boy’s near miss and try to focus on Bonnie. Toronto meanders by at a slow crawl. With the past few days I’ve had, not to mention the adrenaline high and eventual slump after today’s events, my body just about shuts down.

I’m so lulled by the movement of the streetcar that I fall asleep and miss my stop. The driver wakes me up at the station and asks me if I’m alright. I would tell him the truth, but he doesn’t look like he can handle it. I just nod and say yes. A few minutes later we’re on our way back.

It’s fall in Toronto, the season only just beginning to turn frigid, which is what may have effected the sudden chill in Bonnie’s posture. She’s a teenager, but all the self-importance and spitfire that go with that age have momentarily deserted her.

We’re standing in front of each other, this girl and I, for the first time in our lives. Face-to-face, and neither of us is unconscious. An improvement.