The final leg of my journey from New York to Buffalo turned into a battle against the elements on Interstate 90.

July 28, 4:00 AM. The bus makes a technical stop in Syracuse. Passengers are ordered out into the pouring rain. The driver leaves to refuel, abandoning us at the terminal. There is only one thought in my head: I'll have breakfast when I get to Cleveland.

At the Rochester station, I still believed in the plan: "Next stop — Buffalo, transfer to Cleveland." But over Lake Ontario, the heavens opened. Lightning struck so close that the ceiling hatch blew open. Water began flooding the cabin. While we were scrambling to save our backpacks, one passenger simply stood up and slammed the hatch shut, preventing a flood right there on board.

The real thriller began on the exit ramp leaving Rochester. On the highway, the bus suddenly stalls. The driver flips on the hazards, steps out into the downpour, and twenty minutes later delivers his verdict: "Engine trouble."

—"So what do we do now?" — the cabin asks. —"No idea," he shrugs his shoulders.

Cell service died immediately after the shutdown. Time was slipping away; chances of making my connection in Cleveland were approaching zero. Through the wall of rain outside, I could see the hulks of abandoned steel mills passing by.

In that moment, a guy about twenty-five years old spoke up:

"It's an hour's drive to Buffalo. Let's grab an Uber and split the fare."

It was the price of saving the trip. We pooled $90 each. There were three of us. Ignoring the zero visibility, the cabbie floored it. The speedometer needle froze at 90 miles per hour.

I sat in the back seat clutching a bottle of Diet Pepsi I'd bought back on Fifth Avenue in New York. Addison Rae's lyrics hit differently then: "Losing all my innocence in the back seat." In that moment, losing innocence meant just one thing: to escape the Rust Belt, you have to forget about solo survival morality and become a pack.

The guys got off on the approach to Buffalo. I had a dash along the Niagara River ahead of me. Thoughts of the Falls had to be discarded — in this weather, there was nothing to see anyway.

I arrived at the Cleveland bus terminal at 9:00 AM. Delay: ninety minutes. I went straight to the ticket counter for an exchange. We tried calling support.

— "Greyhound? Support line? Nobody answers," the clerk shrugged.

Salvation came from where I least expected. Only after reaching a Wi-Fi zone was I able to message Kenneth, Marina, and Lisa. It was thanks to them that this insane adventure ended not on the wet asphalt of Ohio, but in the warmth of the campus. The Heart of the Rust Belt let me go alive.

David Polyakov (Special Correspondent for API TV from Buffalo, NY, USA)