Newburyport offered a respite as five more passengers filed on and found seats. The driver shifted into gear and the diesel engine whined like a turbine as the bus accelerated. Mitchell pushed back and hung on, watching the road take him toward a destiny for which he had no imagination.

Minutes were relentless, the miles agony now. There was no foreseeing this, and it would have made no difference if he had. The bus passed the monument on Bunker Hill and emerged onto a height overlooking Boston Harbor and Charlestown. The warship Constitution hugged its pier like an old sailor asleep and dreaming. Mitchell’s thoughts were called back to the sea, but not to wooden ships. He didn’t feel like an iron man.

On an outside bench at the back of the terminal Charlie sat in faded jeans and a white tee shirt with his heavy arms spread along the top of the bench. His legs were outstretched and crossed at the ankles. The driver shut down the bus and opened the door and then waited for the passengers to file off. He turned in his seat. "Is this your friend?"

"That’s him," Mitchell said.

The driver looked through the windshield. "Big man."

Charlie stepped into the bus, crowding the front of it as he studied the driver. He stepped up into the aisle next to Mitchell. "How’s it going?"

Mitchell stretched his neck and shoulders. "It feels damn good to stop."

"I’ll get your chair unloaded," the driver said.

"Where’s your cousin?" Charlie asked.

"He’s hooking up with a friend in Portsmouth. We need a break."

"What are you broke?"

"Yeah. That too."

Charlie laughed and it made Mitchell laugh.

The driver popped up onto the first step. "You’re all set."

Charlie looked out the window to check the chair. He reached an arm under Mitchell’s knees.

"Is the cushion on?" Mitchell hooked an arm around Charlie’s neck.

"Yeah, you’ll be nice and comfy."

Charley lifted Mitchell and carried him off the bus to the wheelchair in the parking lot. Mitchell positioned himself and placed his feet. "Thanks for the lift," he said to the driver.

Charlie picked up the seabag. "What lift?"

Early evening traffic rushed and stopped and rushed again like mechanized lava. Charlie’s Jeep was double parked. Drivers honked horns and swore at him as he opened the passenger door and then the canvas back flap to pack the seabag inside. Mitchell backed off the curb between parked cars. Charlie lifted him up and into the Jeep. Silent and unperturbed by the horns and curses Charlie folded the wheelchair and loaded it into the back then tied down the flap before climbing in and starting the Jeep. Without looking he turned sharply into traffic and cut off a taxi. The driver laid on his horn. Charlie waved as if his hand were his middle finger. He edged the Jeep into the confusion.