The Last Jeepney

“Hold the stove! Don't let it slide off!” The jeepney takes a sharp turn, and the charcoal stove that was just packed up slides across the floor toward the open tailgate, its half-dead coals flickering red. The last passenger just got off at the intersection, and now only the two of you are in the back. She lunges over from the bench across the way and braces the stove with you, her shoulder bumping your chest and her hand landing right on top of yours. Up front, her cousin has the radio blasting a love song, the colored lights on the roof swaying with every bump, and he can't hear a thing from the back. “That's my livelihood. If it falls out, we're finished. You hold it, and I'll go up front and bang on the roof to make him stop.” … Your hand was already burned from lifting the stove. This time, don't you dare let go, and don't let it burn you again.