The Boy Who Sat in the Front

The morning sun cast long fingers through the blinds, painting the kitchen in stripes of gold and dust. We were a small convoy of noise, cramming bags and cooler boxes into the old Land Cruiser that had seen better decades. I, Lina, was the first to slide into the passenger seat, my cousin’s birthday supplies already taking up permanent residence in the back. I plugged in my earbuds, letting the tinny beat of some forgotten song fill my skull, and watched the world through the windshield.

My aunt, Tita Rosa, was the last to pile in. She settled into the middle row, her hand patting the seat next to her for my youngest cousin, Jun-Jun. But then she froze mid-pat, her eyes darting to the front seat. She saw him—a boy with wild, spiky hair, sitting right beside me, his face turned away from her, staring out the window on the opposite side. He was there, solid as a statue, in the space where the seatbelt hung loose. Tita Rosa squinted, thinking it was Jun-Jun, who had a habit of sneaking into the front. ‘Miguel, where’s your brother?’ she called out, her voice a little frayed.

I pulled out an earbud, looking back at her with a confused frown. I’m not Miguel; my name is Lina. My cousin Miguel was just stepping up to the car, lugging a bag of ice. He slid into the back seat next to Tita Rosa, and she did a double take—first at the real Miguel, then back to me, to the seat beside me, where the boy was gone. The air in the car turned cold, like a freezer door had been left open. Tita Rosa’s face drained, and she whispered, ‘I saw him. He was right there.’

We tried to laugh it off. But then the farts started. Rude, rippling explosions that seemed to come from empty seats, from the footwell, from the roof lining. No one claimed them, and the car, despite its age, was in perfect mechanical order—no leaks, no strange noises, nothing that could explain the smell of rotten eggs and something deeper, like burnt hair. We blamed the dog, we blamed the road, we blamed the cheap gas. But each time we left the apartment for a trip, the invisible passenger would make his presence known.

It escalated over the weeks. The boy appeared again—always in the front seat, always looking away. But now his form was more detailed: the ripped sleeve of a dark hoodie, the pale skin of his neck, the unmistakable outline of a phone in his hand. Tita Rosa started leaving him a cola can in the cup holder, a small offering. One day, we found it crushed, as if squeezed by an angry fist. The farts became breaths—short, labored sighs that fogged the windshield, even on a dry day.

I began to see him too, from the corner of my eye. A flicker in the rearview mirror, a blink-and-it’s-gone motion. My music started to skip, as if the player was being interfered with, and once, a child’s laughter echoed through the cabin when we passed a row of dusty roadside trees. The car had a history, I knew—it was salvaged from a wrecking yard, and the old plates had a faint, hand-scratched name: ‘CAIN’. But we never asked, never dug. We just drove.

Then came the morning of the birthday party. The sun was hesitant, hiding behind a mountain of grey clouds. We loaded the car with balloons and a cake box, and Tita Rosa insisted on sitting in the front, next to me, to ‘keep an eye on things.’ As we pulled onto the highway, the air grew thick, smelling of ozone and wet soil. The radio hissed, and through the static, a boy’s voice, crackling, whispered, ‘You took my seat.’ Tita Rosa clamped her hand over her mouth. I gripped the wheel, knuckles white. The car swerved slightly, as if a hand had yanked it, and then the voice was gone, replaced by a static that slowly resolved into a cheerful pop song.

We drove in silence the rest of the way, the balloons bobbing overhead like a cheerful mockery. When we parked at the venue, I found a small, child-sized handprint on my window, just at the side mirror, as if a boy had placed his hand there to wave good-bye. The farts never happened again, and the presence left, but from then on, I always checked the back seat before starting the engine, and I never park in front of a grave without offering a cola.