"Not quite. But close. First it takes us to London. Then the sky bus." She looked impressed. "Two buses?" "Two buses, one hippo, many snacks." We sat on the edge of the bench together. I checked the ticket again, even though I knew the time. Tima hummed softly and kicked her heels against my shins in rhythm. Her hand found mine and didn't let go. The wind shifted. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the low growl of a large engine, steady and sure. "Think I hear it," I said. She sat up straighter. "Rocket bus?" "Let's find out." And we both leaned forward into the sound. The National Express pulled in like a long, white whale—sleek, humming, half-asleep. The doors hissed open and a few sleepy-eyed passengers stepped off. We queued with the others, ticket in hand, Tima bouncing lightly at the end of my arm like a kite waiting to lift. "Rocket bus," she whispered. "That's the one," I said. We climbed the steps together, the driver scanning our paper with barely a glance. I slung our bag into the overhead and settled us into two seats near the middle. Tima immediately clambered onto her knees and pressed her face to the window. The coach gave a soft shudder, a sigh, and then we were moving. "Bye river," Tima said, waving. "Bye birds." The city blurred past in shopfronts and bus stops. The wheels hummed, a kind of gentle lull that made conversation feel like it should be whispered. We passed under the first railway bridge and she gasped like we'd entered a secret cave. "Bridge!" she said, "Hold on!" She gripped Hoppy tightly and ducked her head. When we emerged into light again, she let out a delighted breath. "We made it." I laughed and opened the snack pouch. "Emergency raisins?" "Yup."

She munched thoughtfully, offering one to Hoppy, who declined, as usual. I leaned back and let the motion carry us. Out of Newport, the road opened. Fields rolled on either side, dotted with sheep and the occasional lopsided barn. Tima pointed at clouds and told me which animals they looked like. "That's a hippo. That's a chair. That's a hippo on a chair." "Very rare sighting," I said. "Cloud furniture is all the rage." We dipped into a tunnel and the light turned golden behind the tinted windows. Tima whispered something to herself—half a tune, half a list of made-up words—and then turned suddenly serious. "I need change," she said, brows drawn together like this was a mission-critical moment. "Okay, love," I whispered, already unbuckling her. "Let's go on a nappy expedition." We waddled down the narrow aisle like two tired adventurers in a shared sleeping bag, bumping elbows and apologising to the seats as we passed. The toilet door opened with a soft hiss, and the familiar whiff of antiseptic and trapped air met us like an unwelcome old friend. Tima froze at the threshold. "It's tiny," she announced. "Yep," I said. "Travel toilet. For secret missions only." She looked sceptical, then nodded once and clutched tighter to Hoppy. I laid her down on the little pull-down shelf, balancing one knee awkwardly against the wall, trying not to knock anything into the bin. She stared up at the ceiling the whole time, murmuring to Hoppy in what I could only assume was Hippoese. "Almost done," I said, fumbling with the wipes and trying not to drop the nappy bag on my foot. "I smell airplane," she said. "You smell hand soap." Back in our seats, she settled in again—legs tucked under her, Hoppy draped across her knees. She chewed the last of her raisins slowly, each one examined like a relic. The coach curved gently to the left, and through the window a plane drifted far above us, silver and slow. Tima pointed.

"That one ours?" "Maybe," I said. "Maybe it's racing us." She considered this. "We win." I smiled, brushing a crumb from her cheek. "We always do." "That one ours?" "Maybe," I said. "But we've got time." She nodded, content, and laid her head on my arm. The coach rolled on, steady as a lullaby, and I closed my eyes for a moment. Outside, the fields kept drifting. Inside, her hand stayed curled in mine, warm and sure. By the time we passed Swindon, Tima had curled up on the seat, legs tucked beneath her like a cat, cheek pressed against Hoppy's soft belly. One arm was flung over her face, the other still holding a squashed raisin packet she refused to let go of. I shifted slightly, careful not to jostle her, and reached into the side pocket of the rucksack. My sketchpad came out with that soft, papery sound of something well-used—edges bent, smudges from long-ago coffees. I flipped past half-finished doodles, maps, the corner of a grocery list. Found a blank page. I started with the curve of her back, the way her jumper gathered near the hem, the rise and fall of her breath against the window. Hoppy was nestled beside her, eyes crooked from being loved a bit too fiercely, one ear half-folded. I drew that too. His lopsided dignity. The engine hummed beneath us like a memory still being written. I don't know what made me think of it—maybe the light, or the softness of the road—but suddenly I was eight again, legs barely reaching the floor, sitting beside my mum on the long ride to see Nain in Manchester. I remembered the boiled sweets she'd carry, wrapped in wax paper, each one unwrapped like a ceremony. "Count the sheep," she'd whisper. "They'll carry you forward." I remembered the way her arm would cradle me when I dozed, the quiet click of her knitting needles when she thought I wasn't listening. I remembered the way she'd always bring too much—blankets, puzzles, tissues, more snacks than strictly legal. The same way I do now.