Chapter 1

Ride Of A Lifetime

A train horn pierces the air, high and shrill, accompanied by the roar of wheels as they thunder over the iron rails. 

It's a horrible sound. But not so horrible, as it's enough to draw me from my hiding place and make me follow it.

Mud squelches beneath my feet as I cautiously continue onward. Following railroads in such a manner has led me to many a train station, though I normally never stay. I have no money, after all. I haven't had money for two years. That's how long it's been since I was kicked out of my home.

Back when I had money, I was able to buy things like food and train tickets. Now that I don't have any, I'll hitchhike occasionally. Most days, I walk. But today is different. Today, I feel like catching a train could be my lifesaver.

I look at the rusty iron rails, then up at the clouded gray sky. I observe the way the tracks have been set; this way I can tell where the train is headed. It's helpful in navigating and determining station placement. Now, stepping into the center of the tracks, I begin walking the ties. This is done carefully because going too quick will make observation difficult.

The ground rumbles again. The blaring horn sends shivers up my spine; shivers like those I felt when Dugan was shot.

I quicken my pace before realizing I've made a mistake. I've miscalculated my direction.

I'm headed straight for the train!

In a flurry of panic, I hurl my body off the tracks, rolling dizzily down the damp, grassy slope. Great. That wasn't supposed to happen. Running up the hill at breakneck speed, I jump to throw myself against the side of the train as it flies past. My fingers lock onto the handrails as I press my body close to the freight car. I shut my eyes and breathe deeply as the train thunders over the countryside and through a dark, moist tunnel. When we emerge I blink to adjust to the brightness, despite the sky still being gloomy and dark.

There is a station in the nearing horizon, barely visible but still very much existent. This is a freight train, so it likely won't stop, but if I move to the other side of the train...and jump... I should be able to make it....

As the train flies past the station, I leap off and land onto the wooden station platform, rocking unsteadily. I get up at once, dizzy and breathless from going so fast. Nobody is out here, which is good. Likely no one saw me land.

Wanting to look presentable, I enter the station. There are several people waiting in here; they probably don't want to be rained on. Avoiding people's eyes, I find the bathroom. Here, I clean my appearance up a bit and change into some less dirty clothes which I keep in my pack for such instances.

Leaving the bathroom, not bothering to stop for a ticket, I go back outside. Playing it casual, I grab a free magazine and sit on a wooden bench covered in weathered, chipped green paint. I cross my ankles and lean back, scanning articles about makeup, clothes, and rising teen stars. Eventually something sparks my interest and I don't have to fake it.

A passenger train pulls up. I rise and manage to lose myself in the crowd of people entraining, then find a seat in the far back of the fullest coach and sit near the aisle. Though sightseeing would be easier if I sat near the window, aisles are good for escaping.

I hold my magazine in my lap and glance out the corner of my right eye every now and then. Just three seats behind me to my right, there's a boy who looks not much older than myself. A faded khaki trilby hat covers most of his black-haired head, making his eyes look quite dark. His face is bent thoughtfully against one of his hands as he gazes out his window at the green, rolling hills and fields. I glance at him often, all the while taking in the surroundings of the train car. Paisley-patterned wallpaper, red velvet cushioning, and warm brass tones blend together cozily and give the coach a calm, antique feel.

The sun has now dared to peep out, illuminating the world and the train itself. Uh-oh. Here's the conductor, come to take tickets. He asks me for mine after taking the boy's tickets and talking with a young mother. 

The boy raises a hand. "Sir, I already paid for her," he insists in a low, caressing voice. "See?" For proof, he holds up two tickets which have already been punched. The man nods. 

"Errr...never mind then, excuse me." He moves to the next car.

How did the boy do that? I look at him with great admiration and gratitude. Beneath his hat, he smiles and looks out the window. As he does, one of the tickets slips to the floor. He plants a foot over it before I can even get a good glimpse. 

I wish he would look at me, but since he won't I settle back in my seat to read the magazine in my lap. 

Before long, it's suppertime. Passengers are leaving the coach to eat in the dining car. I wish I could go, too, but I have no money and surely there are dining fees.

I look over and see the boy leaving his seat. Hmm, I wonder where he's going?

Trying not to make it obvious that I'm watching him, I pick up the magazine again and read some article about pedicures. Not interesting. Back when I was rich, I often went for pedicures. But now that I'm impoverished, I consider them a painful waste of money. I mean really. Just to have perfect toenails. Unless you've got some really nasty fungus going on or something, there's no need for a pedicure.

There's that feeling again—the feeling of someone watching me; following me. I thought I'd escaped it!

When the boy has disappeared, I toss the magazine aside and stand up. I glance around, but no one is in here except me. After a quick stretch, I go to the boy's seat and check the floor for the ticket. It's not there, so he must've picked it up. Too bad; I'd like to see exactly where the ticket was sending me.

I enter the dining car to see that the boy has chosen a secluded booth and is talking to a waitress. Maybe he came because he hopes I am also here. So he can give me my ticket.

As the waitress leaves, the boy glances my way, nearly catching my eye; so I slide into a seat and hide behind a menu. Hmm... My stomach growls ravenously. My eyes widen, as I'm surprised and embarrassed at how loud my stomach sounds. To conceal my embarrassment, I pretend to be astonished at the food selection. Oh, faking it is just no fun. I may be a good actress, but I absolutely hate pretending I'm not homeless. No matter how much it preserves my pride.

By the time the waitress stops at my table, I've decided on grilled chicken breast with french fries and ketchup, and a glass of raspberry lemonade to top it off. That's really all I need to get by for at least another day or so. After taking my order and menu book, the waitress leaves. I fold my hands on the white tablecloth and stare at the vase of flower buds in the center. Through the corner of my eye I see the boy watching me as he digs into an appetizer. I shake my hair and comb my fingers through it in an almost flirty manner; maybe he'll notice me better.

Suddenly it slams into me hard: I can't afford the food I ordered.

With a lump in my throat, I slap my head to the table. I'm not going to cry, but it is devastating. I stole my way onto the train; now I have to figure out how to get my food without paying.

The waitress—a plump and jolly middle-aged woman—delivers the boy's meal and then mine. "Here's your food, dearie, and have a nice evening."

I lift my head, "Oh, uhh...thanks. But... I forgot to tell you that it's supposed to go over there." I wave at the boy's table and get up from my seat. "I can bring it over myself, if you like. My...boyfriend and I must've misplaced each other." I fake a playful giggle and the waitress's worry wrinkle disappears as she hands me the plate and glass of lemonade. 

"Careful!" she warns. "It's still quite hot. Enjoy!"

"I will!" I smile, carrying the items to the boy's booth and setting them on the table. I slide into the cushy bench across from him and take up a fork, cutting into the steamy, hot chicken. As he looks up from the notepad he has on the table, I give him a businesslike half-smile. His mouth hangs open for a bit as he watches me, but soon it closes as he becomes resigned to the fact that I am where I am, that I'm not going to move. So he comfortably settles back, eating his own food—pork and vegetables—and writing in his notepad every now and then. 

I roll the chicken around in my mouth, tasting every corner of its flavor. It's perfectly done, well-seasoned, and absolutely delicious. Very palatable, indeed. Then I take a sip of lemonade. As I look over the brim of my glass, I see the boy looking at me again. It seems as though he wants to speak, to ask me something. 

But words never leave his firmly closed mouth. He simply finishes his food and continues writing. I really wish he would speak to me; I'm kind of dying to know who he is. I want to thank him for saving me during the ticket scenario. And I would like to have my so-called "ticket" just in case the boy isn't staying on the train.

Setting down his erasable pen, the boy stacks our empty dishes and pushes them to the end of the table, glancing at me the entire time. It makes me feel strange. 

Not only do I feel strange; I feel insecure. Like someone's behind me.

I twitch and throw a long look over my shoulder, but nobody's there. The boy notices this as he takes another drink of his soda. "Something the matter?" he asks, speaking to me for the first time.

I warily settle my eyes on him and shrug. "I just get this weird feeling of being followed, sometimes. I'm probably just crazy."

He nods, seemingly unperturbed, which I personally find perturbing. "Oh, alright. That sounds serious, though." Then he's totally silent, as if he never said anything, penning words on his notepad.

I've just now realized that I admitted the Feeling to someone other than Dugan for the first time. In a way it feels nice, but it also makes the Feeling seem all the more real.

As a matter of fact I feel an awful pit in my stomach. I clutch my hands over it and try to wait out the gut-wrenching queasiness. The boy looks up and shakes his head. "You alright? Ya' look sick."

It takes all my best acting skills to muster a smile and reply cheerily, "Oh... I'm fine."

"Well anyway, here's your ticket. You might need it, I guess." Slipping the pen into the pocket of his white button-down shirt, he pushes the ticket across the table and gets up from his seat, adjusting his hat and tucking the notepad under his arm. Then he heads back to the passenger car.

Should I follow him? My stomach still feels yucky and I'm not sure if walking will do it any good. Maybe I should take a trip to the restroom and try relieving myself.

It doesn't help much, so I return to my seat in the main coach and lie down. As I do, I feel something tugging my ankle. However, nobody appears to be there. I can smell a faint cologne. I never thought about it before, but when Dugan was shot I remember smelling something very similar.

I flash into a sitting position and grab my magazine. Casually, I move across the aisle to sit beside the boy. He looks over, his countenance completely devoid of expression, then continues writing on the notepad which sits in his lap. I read my magazine and kick my feet. Trying to make that icky sensation in my gut go away. Trying to ignore the feeling of being followed.