The last bus leaves the city centre at 11:40. Most people are already home. The driver, Mr. Ellis, is just starting his night.
He knows the route by heart: the hospital, the market, the long road by the river, the sleeping houses at the end. He knows the passengers too. The cleaner who always sits at the back. The student who falls asleep and wakes up at the same stop. The nurse who runs.
Tonight, the nurse is late. She comes around the corner with two heavy bags and rain in her hair. Mr. Ellis waits. He is patient. He does not close the door.
"You are kind," she says, out of breath.
"I am late," he says. "But not that late."
She tries to lift the bags. He gets out and takes one. He is considerate; he does not make a speech about it. He puts the bag by her seat and waits until she is safe.
The bus moves through the wet streets. The nurse looks out of the window. "I am tired of nights," she says. "Sometimes I do not know if I help anyone."
Mr. Ellis thinks for a moment. "You helped the person in bed 12 tonight," he says. "I saw you run."
She laughs. "You see everything from this bus."
"I see the same people every night," he says. "I see them get on tired and get off a little better. That is enough for me."
At her stop, she stands up. "Thank you," she says.
He nods. Her gratitude is small, but it stays with him for the rest of the route.
When he finishes at 2 a.m., he parks the bus and checks the mirrors. He is proud of his quiet work. No one claps for a night bus driver. But the city sleeps better because he drives.
A thought to keep
Not every important job is seen. Some are driven through the night.