Today I took a seat next to a tiny coed in white cargo pants and black sneakers. I noticed her shoes because she had her feet tucked up under her. Adorable. She barely took up her own space, which meant I could spread out a little more than usual. I was beat from a bad night’s sleep and drifted in and out. Near the end of the ride I opened my eyes and looked at my seatmate. She was probably something ridiculous like 19, which meant she could easily be my daughter. And because she looked even younger, I felt this weird fatherliness toward her. I imagined we were on our way somewhere together, no need to talk, that’s how comfortable we were with each other. I felt proud and protective and amazed at this promising young life for which I was responsible. Just as she reached overhead to signal her stop the bus made a wide turn, which caused her to lose her balance and fall onto me a little. She looked at me and laughed. I laughed too. A moment later she was gone. Kids grow up so fast.