Chapter 3: Congestion

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     Coy ran as hard and fast as he could towards the bus stop, he had around 30 seconds left, and hoped by some miracle, the bus was late. The bus stop was a good block and a half away, so there was no way he was making it to the bus stop at perfectly 4:00. Coy turned quickly around a corner, and was immediately forced to a stop.

     A fairly large crowd was gathered around what Coy could only assume was a street performer. The crowd had phones out recording as best as they could with everyone else around. He could hear singing, probably from what he could assume was a little boy, singing an old country song. Suddenly peaking his interest, and forgetting his current dilemma, Coy tried to get a better look. He shoved past the crowd, more towards the front, and got a glimpse of the kid.

     The boy was dressed in a plaid shirt with jeans and cowboy boots, with his hair nice and fixed up, like he had just come from something formal with a southern swing to it. Coy could now make out the lyrics, and strained to hear more, but then his phone buzzed in his pocket, bringing his back. Blinking himself back into the reality, Coy renewed his efforts and looked at his phone. 4:01. Coy ran as fast as he could, and nearly slammed into the pole at the bus stop once he arrived, just as the bus was driving away.

     Coy groaned in frustration and slummed into the bus stop bench, trying to think of another way home. It was too far to walk, and add to the fact that he didn't quite have the way walking memorized, and not all the streets had sidewalks.

     Coy glanced at the money in his hand, and an idea crawled into his mind. He could just call a driver to get home. He let out a deep sigh of relief and slumped farther into the bus stop bench, and pulled out his phone. The notification he had received earlier had been something concerning a video of his on fortnite, followed by some contradicting comments about his win. Coy sighed and dialed up a cab company.

"Hello, how can I help you?" A voice asked from the opposite line.

"I need a ride home to 3258 E. Winster Dr."

"Of course sir, where would you like to be picked up?"

Coy though for a moment about a nearby place, and his stomach grumbled a complaint.

"The McDonalds on 57th Street, the one near the Walgreens."
The receptionist on the line typed into a computer, for a minute.

"Alright, a cab will be there soon, in about 15 minutes to pick you up."

"Thank you," Coy responded before he hung up, and started walking toward the said McDonalds.

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