“We really shouldn’t have gotten into that fight with the old man at the Waffle House,” Deniz Undav said, the bus quietly hissing down the highway, a bag of ice resting on his head like a sloppy beret. 

“But that’s not why we lost to Paraguay,” Waldemar Anton replied.

The PA system crackled to life. 

“Sorry, folks. I just realized I forgot to put the safety video on. One moment.”

Wirtz furrowed his brow. He glanced up at the blank television screens and then down towards the front. 

“Excuse me! Mister Bus Driver! Why are you putting on a safety video?” 

Much to the team’s surprise, they watched the driver get up from his seat and turn to face his passengers. He kept a foot on the wheel and occasionally glanced behind him to make sure he was doing what he thought he was doing. 

The driver seemed to be holding himself like a man who had gotten dressed in overalls that were falling apart in order to walk through a factory made of blood. He was dressed professionally — a dark suit, a white shirt, dark dress pants — but his soul carried the body like a sack of broken potatoes. 

The car wheels swerved. The players looked at each other in confusion.

“We are watching the safety video because you are about to encounter … these! Hands!”

“I thought I knew his face,” Musiala said, standing up, smiling, rushing to meet the moment.