“I came back to school in May of 1995,” Dr. Ostrander said. “Bald. Skinny. Wearing a mask. Scared to death. And the first morning, I walked out to the end of our driveway at 6:45 and waited, because I didn’t know if Route Seven would still come up our road now that I was going to be on it.”
He smiled. His eyes were wet.
“It came. He opened the door. He looked at me. And he said, ‘Morning, Caleb. Third seat on the left.’ Like I’d never been gone.”
He shook his head.
“I sat in that seat until sixth grade. I went to college. I went to medical school, actually, for a year and a half, because I wanted to be the kind of doctor who saved kids like me. And then I realized that the person who’d saved me wasn’t a doctor at all. It was a man who drove a bus and decided, on his own, without asking anybody, to go a mile and a half out of his way.”
He looked at Principal Shaw.
“So I went into education instead. Because I wanted to work for the kind of place that would let a man do that.”
Principal Shaw had gone very pale.
“Mr. Pfeiffer never told anyone,” Dr. Ostrander went on. “I asked my parents about it years later. They didn’t know who’d arranged it. They thought the district had done it. The district thought my parents had requested it. Nobody had. He just did it.”
He paused.
“Actually, that’s not quite right. Somebody did know. When I became superintendent, three years ago, I asked the district office to pull the old transportation files from 1994. I wanted to find out who had approved the route change, so I could thank them.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and took out a folded piece of paper. It was yellow. Carbon paper. The old kind.
“Nobody had approved it. I found this instead.”
He unfolded it and held it up so the front rows could see.
“It’s a written reprimand. Dated November 14, 1994. Issued to Ronald Pfeiffer, Route Seven, for unauthorized deviation from an assigned bus route resulting in excess mileage and fuel consumption. It’s signed by the transportation director at the time. It says that if the deviation continues, further disciplinary action will be taken.”
The gym made a sound. Not a word. More like everybody breathing out at once.
“He got written up,” Dr. Ostrander said. “Three weeks after he started. For going up my road.”
He folded the paper.
“And he kept doing it anyway. Every day. For six more months. And I found something else in that file.”
He reached into his pocket again and took out a stack of small paper slips. Receipts. A thick little stack held together with a paperclip.
“These are gas receipts. From the Cenex station on Highway 59. Every Friday from November 1994 to May 1995. Three gallons of diesel. Paid in cash. Each one has ‘Route 7’ written on the back in pencil.”
He held them up.
“The district stopped him from using district fuel for the detour. So he bought his own. Every week. Out of his own pocket. For six months.”
He looked at my dad.
“I’d like to know how much a bus driver made in 1994, Ron.”
My father didn’t answer.
“I’ll tell you,” Dr. Ostrander said. “I looked it up. Eight dollars and forty cents an hour.”
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.