”“Mr. Jones,” one of the boys called out toward the adults. “I think he used the door in the roof of the bus. I heard something when it was dark out and then there was as huge blast of cold air. It only lasted a few seconds, but it sounded like someone was walking on the roof right afterwards.”A few hand signals made some of the goons take off. When they returned they whispered something to the main goon. He nodded before heading right for where all the kids were waiting.“Do you know any of these children,” he asked holding up a tablet with six kids showing on it.When he got to me my goggles kicked on I saw all six of the kids come up with names beside them, lot of names. Each had a least ten aliases. A map came up in my left lens with dots showing where they were right now. I didn’t know where Bristol, Tennessee was, but they were all moving past it around eighty miles an hour heading toward Knoxville, Tennessee. The bus driver’s picture popped up and then he showed up with the group. "No," she answered faintly. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize I'd need one." You don't," he said. "Not for my sake, anyway."She felt her nipples hardening and she was squirming because he was watching her breasts swelling from inside her shirt. Worse: he was caressing her skin and outlining her breasts with the knife. She couldn't move and she couldn't stop him from looking. Her whole body was stiff; rigid, unbending while the knife was large and unwieldy and pressing at her chest, pinning her down to her bed."My boyfriend will be home soon," she stammered, and her mouth was dry, because she could feel how transparent the shirt had become and the shallowness of her breathing."No, he won't," the stranger retorted, pricking her with the knife, but this time lower, much lower, because the knife was heading downwards from her breasts. It moved under her shirt and she gasped, because he was stretching the fabric from off her shoulders and away from her breasts so that they were obscenely.
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