The Sixty-Second Miracle

Maya’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Sixty seconds. That’s all she had. She peeked through the grimy bus window, the pre-dawn Sumenep sky bruised with the promise of a violent sunrise. The conductor’s booming voice, a rhythmic singsong in Javanese, faded as the bus lurched to a stop. Sixty seconds to rewrite her destiny.

Her grip tightened on the worn leather satchel, its contents a tangible weight against her churning stomach. Inside, nestled amongst well-thumbed textbooks, lay a single sheet of paper – her university entrance exam permit. It was a passport to a future beyond the monotonous rhythm of life in Sumenep, a future painted in vibrant hues that transcended the endless rows of Madura’s salt flats.

The bus door hissed open, spewing a wave of pre-dawn commuters. Maya lingered, the stale air inside the bus a strange comfort compared to the unknown outside. Her gaze darted towards the front, searching for him. Pak Harun, the kindly old bookseller, had promised to be there. He was her only hope.

A commotion at the front of the bus drew her attention. A young man, no older than Maya, was arguing with the conductor, his voice laced with desperation. He shoved a crumpled wad of bills into the conductor’s hand, his dark eyes pleading. The conductor, a burly man with a shaved head, scoffed, the wad of bills fluttering to the ground.

“Missed your stop, kid?” The conductor’s voice boomed. “Next bus comes in an hour.”

The young man’s face crumpled. He bent down to pick up the money, his movements jerky with despair. In that moment, a spark ignited within Maya. Sixty seconds. She had sixty seconds to act.

With a deep breath, she shouldered her bag and pushed past the throng exiting the bus. The conductor’s surprised grunt was momentarily lost in the cacophony of the morning rush. Reaching the young man, she knelt beside him, ignoring the sting of the dusty pavement.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Are you going to Kalianget?”

He looked up, startled. His eyes, the color of strong coffee, held a flicker of hope battling with resignation. “Y-yes,” he stammered. “But I…”

“I’m going there too,” Maya interrupted, her voice gaining strength. “We can share a cab.”

The young man hesitated, then a flicker of a smile touched his lips. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

“No trouble at all,” Maya said, forcing a smile. “Come on, let’s find a cab before the next bus arrives.”

They hurried out of the bus terminal, the morning air thick with the scent of exhaust and frying food. Maya hailed a passing taxi, her heart pounding a frantic counterpoint to the ticking clock in her head.

“Kalianget University,” she instructed the driver, ignoring the bewildered look the young man shot her way.

Inside the cramped cab, an awkward silence settled between them. Maya stole glances at him. He was dressed simply, a worn backpack slung on his shoulder. His fingers nervously tapped a rhythm against his knee.

“What’s your name?” she blurted out, breaking the silence.

He startled, then offered a shy smile. “Bayu.”

“Maya,” she replied. “Are you taking the entrance exam today?”

Bayu’s smile faltered. “I was supposed to. But I missed the bus from my village.”

Shame flushed his cheeks. Maya understood. The unreliability of public transport was a constant source of frustration in Sumenep. But time was a luxury they didn’t have.

“Look, Bayu,” Maya said, her voice gaining confidence. “I have a permit to enter the exam hall, but I…” she hesitated, then blurted out, “I can’t take the exam.”

Bayu’s eyebrows shot up. “Why not?”

Taking a deep breath, Maya revealed her secret. Her family, struggling to make ends meet, couldn’t afford her education. The permit she held was meant for her younger brother, a brilliant boy with a future brighter than the salt flats that stretched endlessly around their village. But he, bless his naive heart, dreamt of becoming a fisherman, just like their father.

“So, I was going to sell this permit,” Maya confessed, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Just enough to get by for a while.”

Bayu listened intently, his coffee-colored eyes reflecting a kaleidoscope of emotions. When she finished, a slow smile spread across his face.

“You know,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady, “I might be able to help you with that.”

He rummaged through his backpack and pulled out a worn.