The bus glides through the night and most of the next day with the shades down, the lights low. The nineteen of us file out at the compound and relax in our assigned rooms. The hot shower feels good. Fluffy towel. Fresh underwear. A new uniform which fits just right. I look sharp and feel fresh. Ready for anything. We meet in the common room.

Along one wall and part of another is a raised platform divided into compartments. It looks a little like an old-fashioned zoo, although there are no bars, just a velvet rope fronting each area. Along the base of the platform are big letters, A through F, from right to left. We’re given a questionnaire and told to rate the dresses the girls are wearing, but without my reading glasses I can’t make out the exact instructions—the questions are a frizzy blur. I can see the girls easily enough, though. A has long raven locks. B has auburn hair falling softly to her shoulders. C is blonde. D is perky, and her smile looks insincere. She does a little dance, and her short skirt flounces, and I get the idea she has to go to the bathroom. Time is up before I have a chance to look at E and F. I’m still looking at D, at her quirky little dance.

I’m thinking I’m going to vote for D, out of sympathy, and because I like the way her short skirt teases me. If it flipped up just another inch or two, I’d be able to see her underwear; that’s assuming she’s wearing underwear.

Most of the guys have already handed in their papers. “Um, excuse me,” I ask one of them, “can I borrow your pencil?”

“Sorry,” he says. “Turned it in.” He motions to the table at the far end of the room. I figure maybe I could pick up a pencil there, and I’m about to make my way across the room, but one of the girls is standing in front of me. It’s B—the girl with soft auburn hair.

“Hi,” she says. “I hope you’re going to vote for me.”

Her dress seems different. It clings to her. It looks like brushed velvet, and it has some kind of fur-like collar lining the scoop neck. The fur makes me think of her secret hair, and I get an instant erection. The girl smiles at me. “So what do you say?” she says. “Can I count on you?”

“Oh, sure,” I say. “I guess. Except I don’t...”

“You want to know why I like this dress the best?” she says.

“Why?”

“Because it’s easy to get off,” she says. She smiles at me again. Looks pointedly at the press of my erection, and then deeply into my eyes. “Are you easy to get off?”

I blush. “I ... uh...”

“Want to ask me what time I get off?”

I can’t make my mouth work.

“At beddy-bye time,” she says. “Will you wait for me?”

I’ve never been approached like this before. I’ve never been approached before at all. “Ah ... sure,” I answer.

“See you then,” she says. She smiles at me over her shoulder as she walks away.

I find a pencil. I mark my questionnaire with a great big B. I pace the corridors, wondering where B and I will meet and what time exactly beddy-bye time is.

A few minutes later, however, we’re herded into the bus. The bus rolls out onto the highway. The eighteen guys sit back, trying to get some sleep. I tighten my fists. I tighten my jaw. I try to relax, but I can’t. I’ve had enough of this. I get up. I walk up the aisle to the driver. “We need to stop,” I tell him. “We need to turn around and go back. We need to turn around and go back right now.”

“No can do,” the driver says. “Please go back to your seat.”

“I’m serious,” I tell the driver. “I’m really, really serious.” I have my right hand on my gun. The driver can see it. “You see how serious I am?”

“Go back to your seat,” the driver says. “Think things through. You’re not going to accomplish anything. You’re just going to wreck things for everyone, for yourself most of all.”

“Maybe so,” I say. “But we need to go back. We need to go back right now.” Slowly, carefully, I ease the gun out of the supple leather holster. “Turn around,” I say. I try to make my voice as steely as possible. “Turn around this very instant.”

The driver doesn’t respond. He looks straight ahead. The bus keeps going. On and on it goes, into the night. I stand there, my finger on the trigger, until almost certainly it’s long past beddy-bye time.