The Hot Dog Schedule

At exactly 2:17 a.m., the vending machine in the abandoned bus station coughed

up a hot dog with a receipt that read “RUN.” Before I could laugh, the hot dog blinked.

The lights flickered. Every departure board flipped to my name, all destinations

replaced with NOWHERE. A janitor on roller skates drifted past and whispered, “You shouldn’t have

paid in quarters.” His mop screamed. The doors slammed shut. My phone buzzed

with a notification from tomorrow: You already tried hiding. Outside, the pigeons lined

up in perfect military rows, staring through the glass like they were waiting for

orders. The hot dog leapt from my hands and sprinted toward the tracks,