The Rider took a seat in the first row opposite the driver. But when he’d walked into the aisle, hadn’t she seen a glimpse of brown beneath that hood? Whatever his face had looked like, he had not appeared to be white. Still, she was relieved he did not sit in the back of the bus near them. “That figures,” Priscilla murmured. “You think he’d let a Negro get on smelling like that? And after he nearly made us crash. I swear, what’s wrong with people?” “I don’t think he’s…”—human, she almost said, inexplicably—“white.”
