I've seen these bus passengers before, two men not far from either side of their twenties, I'd guess. Neither their body language nor talk suggest they're friends, though they boarded together and, last time, sat next to each other despite ample empty seats. Their interaction strikes me as incongruously formal, for example, the way one walked past their row, waving the other into a seat, before sliding in adjacent.
This time, the one with dark hair sits in an empty row in front of the other traveler who wears his baseball cap backwards.
"Good job," says baseball cap to dark hair, once they're both seated. I wonder at his words.
The bus continues its route, and I overhear baseball cap talking about where the two will disembark, near Highway 287. The two fall quiet until, with the highway junction approaching, dark hair stirs. He reaches for and tugs the yellow cable to signal a stop requested.
"That's your strongest pull yet," baseball cap praises.
Seconds later, they shuffle off, more compliments flowing from baseball cap to dark hair and a thank you tossed back to the driver. That's when the scene clicks: baseball cap, a teacher; dark hair, a student learning how to navigate the transit system.