on the way to stop 16

The bus ride is 15 minutes. There's one road on the island, one bus route. Getting lost is not an option. The radio plays on the bus as it always does in countries where the sun shines. I recognise a voice, a tune, a song. Every day is like Sunday. In a seaside town. They forgot to shut down. The sun scintillates on a sea made of corrugated pearls. The singer sings. I allow myself a smile. Come armegeddon, come. The song is curtailed before the singer has a chance to finish.