I drove the bus on Christmas Day. My twin brother used to work the holidays with me, but he's been gone twelve years now.
The next morning, I found a prescription bottle wedged under the last seat. The name on it wasn't mine. I tucked it into my coat pocket.
My last drop-off was at the mall. The returns line at the electronics store snaked past the entrance, people holding boxes of unwanted things.
I stood in line with the bottle I'd found, waiting to turn it in at the pharmacy counter.
A woman in front of me was returning a tablet her son didn't want. She said she'd waited three hours. I told her I'd worked the last two Christmases.
She looked at me like I was a ghost. Maybe I am one. Just still driving the route.
The pharmacist knew the name on the bottle. Said the man lived two stops past the lake. I told her I'd drop it by after my shift.
It was the closest thing to a gift I gave that whole season.