“Wait!” she yelled, ignoring the bite of pain in her knee and sprinting for the bus stop. “Wait!”

The closing door of the star/starfish bus swung back open, and with a gasp of relief Maren threw herself up the steps. She fished four quarters out of her pocket, making sure not to drop the dream sachets.

“Everybody move down,” called the bus driver, and Maren stuffed herself into the jumble of passengers filling the aisle. As the bus lurched forward, everyone wobbled and swayed, and Maren caught hold of a greasy handle on the back of a seat. Somebody smelled like tacos, and somebody else was listening to bluegrass music loud enough for the whole bus to hear. In the seat next to Maren, a middle-aged woman sat knitting a baby sweater that kept changing colors.

“Sorry I hit you,” said the same boy’s voice. Maren was wedged too tightly to turn and look at him, but she didn’t need to. It was Amos O’Grady, the curly-haired boy who used to be her best friend—before he started hanging out with kids who made up nasty stories about people and ruined their lives.

“Don’t worry about it.” Maren worked her bag around to the front of her body and slid out a paperback book. She only had enough space to hold the book inches from her nose, too close to actually read the words, but it didn’t matter as long as it made Amos stop talking. Her knee still stung, and she felt blood trickling down her shin.

The bus rumbled past Maisie Mae’s Frozen Delights, with its usual line of customers stretching down the sidewalk. Maisie’s ice cream magic was similar to Maren’s dream magic, in that it influenced people’s minds, but on a smaller scale. Each flavor put her customers in a different mood. Peppermint gave them the elated feeling of the last day of school, bubblegum caused uncontrollable giggles, and lemon-rosemary sorbet dredged up long-forgotten memories. Spicy chocolate cayenne was a mixed bag. Sometimes it warmed people up on a cold day, but sometimes it started unnecessary fights.

At the waterfront, most of the passengers got off and headed for the pier. For half a minute, the air filled with sunshine and cinnamon and the carefree lightness of people on vacation. Then the doors swung shut, and the bus was quiet. Maren found a sideways-facing seat near the front, where she tucked her knees up, made a barrier with her book, and pretended not to notice Amos, now wedged in beside the knitting woman with the color-changing sweater. He wore a blue soccer jersey—he was the middle school team’s goalie—and every time Maren looked up, his eyes darted away.