As this Schmeel crept himself to his feet, he beheld the fury of pandemonium sweeping through his fellow passengers. Something inexplicable had happened. The train these fair people were once riding on had somehow, someway, turned into a city bus barreling it's way through empty streets. The driver mad, cackled and shrieked his way through the calm night air as his stock of captives cried and prayed and wondered to themselves how in the world such a thing could have happened.
It's impossible. Trains don't just turn into buses out of nowhere.
Gorilla Munch has certainly noticed the change, and the commotion it has caused. He took it in stride, for Munch never actually had any destination to travel to, he's just always on the move.
But, Munch knows what happened. He looked over at the woman he was awkwardly staring at. He looked and scowled.
Slowly, he raised himself and tottered over to her. His legs worked as if they were made of rotten wood, his kitten jumped to the floor and ran off, scared witless.
Slowly, closer to this woman. Slowly.
He reached her, and lowered himself to meet her eye line. Their pupils locked, their breath mingled. Munch pointed a bony, tree branch finger right between her eyes.
"You did this, didn't you?"
"It was you."

"I'm already on here people!" the bus driver shouted. Somehow the crazy woman had found her way past Schmeel. Shouting back "I guess the box just pissed me off!"

"That was just rude, is what it was." shouted back the driver.

Schmeel found himself instantly face down in the isle. The driver had slammed on the accelerator leaving him disoriented and his long nose two inches from a passengers shoe. Pulling himself up he tried to erase the gasps of the people, from his ears and collect his belongings...wits included.

Schmeel

Schmeel was getting on a bus. The 16. The poor sap was carrying a box and a suitcase. Wheeling up to board he was pounded by a runningback trying to punch through for the victory touchdown. Only this wasn't a football game and he wasn't a lineman and she definitely wasn't a runningback. Just seconds before he had witnessed her getting berated by a homeless man with a guitar and a scab on his nose the shape of Africa. He had impressively screamed a perfect rendition of Bob Dylan's You've Gotta Lotta Nerve, subsequently parading down the street screaming "FUCK YOU RICH WHITE TRASH i'm not cussing at you god bless you FUCK YOU RICH WHITE TRASH!! BLEss you FUCK YOU RICH WHITE TRASH bless you." Unfazed, she seemed fairly calm about the whole ordeal...although Schmeel should have had a clue as to her sanity when she asked him, just moments before the bus arrived. if he was a hair thief .

She knows him. She does. The idea hits here like a dejevu. Hits her stomach like a sack of potatoes. Same difference. Maybe it was the kitten that set it off, or the way his mouth moved... but she knows him she knows him she knows him. She does.

Transfixed and lost in the crystalizing goo on the corner of his mouth. She watches it glint and sparkle in the light. It takes her back to a time when she was learning about how to tie her own shoelaces. Not for any particular reason the she can surmise, but her subconscious is trying to tell her something....but what?

She was twelve. Yes, twelve arguably a late bloomer in the shoe-tying business. Much like someone avoids their multiplication tables she had found ways briefly into puberty not to figure out how that silly riddle went about rabbits and ears and wrapping over under through whatever it was...
Really, the idea of torturing a rabbit never really helped her understand any knots other than the ones in her stomach. But here there are no knots so what is the message coming from deep inside her deep dark well...

No that would be too simple, and he isn't going down any holes. It is just then that she notices the glow of his watch illuminating the little grey kitten's eyes as the bus passes into the tunnel beneath the city.