Rain. The rain gently taps on the window. I see figures dancing on the now-fogged glass. I, myself, am soaking wet. Every inch of me is drenched in the clear, cold substance. My friends, on the other hand, are so wet, their shirts are see-through. She laughs after telling me her shirt is 75% water and 25% shirt. Outside, pellets of freezing water hit the ground, splashing on the flooded highway road. I hear 1,000 tiny voices squealing. Now the maroon-leather seats are damp to the touch. It's a slight inconvenience, considering the number of raindrops surrounding my cramped yellow school bus. I think she's calling me, but my headphones are in. I don't have great hearing anyway. Instead, I glance out the window. Still, rain.