Amara grips the bus pole tight. A gray bus roars past, spraying wet mud on her ankles. She flinches back, dripping on the cobbles.
Across the square, the old man twists his red umbrella. Pop. Pop. Pop. It snaps shut every time. He tries again, and again.
Amara lets go of the pole. Her toes scuff the wet cobbles as she walks over. The old man looks up, dripping.
She tugs the umbrella handle. Pop! It whips shut and bops his nose. She tugs again. Pop! A bus honks so loud the umbrella rattles in her small hands.
She crouches low, eyes locked on a tiny silver button beneath the fabric. Muddy boots stomp past on both sides. She waits.
One fingertip presses the button. The red umbrella uncurls, slow and soft, petals opening under the gray sky. Three buses slam their brakes all at once.
The square goes silent. Just the drip of rain on red. The old man tips his flat hat. Amara lifts one small finger to her chin and whispers, "There."
Amara scampers to the bus, climbs three steps, and plops down by the window. Colorful houses smear past her palms. Behind her, the quiet square watches the red umbrella disappear down the street.
