Why on their way to school through the dawn glow at the end of the last semester, standing in the graze of the Ornbaum Opening, they’d seen an albino doe with her nose to the ground, the first streaking rays of daylight illuminating her snowy whiteness. All of the kids on the bus saw her, too, since the driver, an old Arky nicknamed “Shorty,” having just recently been awarded for putting in his first million school bus miles without so much as losing track of a single rug rat, or bending a fender, or getting the bus stuck in mud, felt entitled to break the rules and violate procedures. He’d earned the right by golly. So good old Shorty pulled the bus over, locked up his airbrakes, pointed his finger and urged everybody to lookee there. The doe looked up at the bus with perked ears and the kids got an eyeful.
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