They stop, just like that. It will never cease to amaze Naftali, the authority he holds in this big yellow vehicle

Slam. Slap. Thud. He knows, without turning around, the source of the noises from the back of the bus: a fist slamming into a chest, a body thrown against the side of a seat.

There’s a grunt, then a howl, the cries of other boys around the aggressor. There’s a return blow, equally powerful, and the sound of a boy crashing to the ground.

“Watch it!” someone shouts. “Back off!”

A hoarse voice, filled with rage. “He can back off.” Something clatters to the floor — glasses? Not broken glasses again — then there’s a ragged yell and more fists pummeling bodies.

Naftali glances at the mirror, catches sight of two boys with dark glares and fists raining down upon each other. He pulls the bus over before he intervenes. The bus is a monstrous thing to park on the side of a quiet street, loud and bright and blocking half of the lane. He parks, pulls in the stop signs on the side of the bus, and turns around.

“Boys!” he calls.

They stop, just like that. It will never cease to amaze Naftali, the authority he holds in this big yellow vehicle. The boys look up at him, disgruntled and wary.