Bridge

 

They’d come a long way to see the bridge.

First by dilapidated motheaten passenger train, then walking uphill on a rocky trail lined with scorpions and sadness, and finally, on a bus that smelled of old tuna sandwiches and feet.

But now they were here.

Silently, they gathered on the bridge, waiting for it to raise up and allow the fancy boats to sail under it, away from the brown river and into the blue waters of the lake.

But nothing happened. The fancy boats milled around in the brown water, their crews glaring at the people on the bridge.