Even before I turned the key, I could feel my stomach knotting. The van sat there like a tomb in the hot Los Angeles morning sun — scarred, waiting. I’d been dreading this moment since my alarm buzzed at 6 a.m.
The van itself had seen better decades. Worn down, reeking of stale urine, sweat and something indefinable — maybe years of accumulated desperation. Torn seats, walls decorated with graffiti and frustration. Someone had carved “FUCK THIS PLACE” into the plastic behind my seat. Every morning, I stared at those words, wondering if today I’d finally agree.
I set off on my route: 10 students, mostly boys aged 10 to 18. For “safety,” I had a behaviorist riding along — in case someone decided to jump from a moving vehicle. I’d seen this wasn’t a one-off — it had happened before.
The aide climbing into the passenger seat was already scrolling his phone, earbuds in, checked out before we’d left the lot.
“No phones during transport,” I said, keeping my voice level. “We need all eyes on the kids.”
