“Hey!” called a man, after the noise of the passing train subsided. “I saw your light.”
I clenched my fists and hunkered down, squeezing my eyes shut like a child. Anyone will tell you, I’m timid. Like a mouse. Keep your head down, get good grades, don’t do anything stupid — my refrain of survival.
Beneath me, the platform shuddered as feet hit the ladder.
“Hey!” the guy shouted again.
The intermodal was now far in the distance, carrying its voice with it. The night fell silent. Then footsteps rang out on the platform.
“Why, hello,” said the man.
I unscrewed my eyes and looked up.
He was a silhouette cut out of fire. I couldn’t make out any detail — not his age nor the color of his clothes. He was just a man-shaped hole against the sunset.
But I could smell him. Grease and smoke and rusted iron.
He crouched next to me and held up his light. I studied him while he looked me over. He had blond dreads and eyes the color of topaz. He wore a pair of jeans and heavy boots and an old rain jacket. He eased back the hood. He was actually kind of cute, and maybe not too much older than me.
He grinned. “I saw your light. Thought you’d want company.”
“I don’t,” I said stiffly. Relieved he wasn’t my dad. Terrified as to who he might be instead, cute or not.
The grin got wider. His teeth were perfect. “I’ve been waiting two days for a train to stop. And here comes one with a beautiful woman on board. You going to kick me off?”
“There are lots of cars. Pick any one but this one.”
He settled onto his haunches. “You haven’t been on the road very long, have you? Don’t see too many girls out here. Mostly dudes.”
I said nothing.
“That’s okay. You’ll get to know what lonely feels like soon enough. Are you hungry?”
“Please go.”
Instead, he slung off his immense pack and settled in next to me. He rummaged through the pack and came out with a camp stove, a can of butane and another of beans.
“I got plenty to share,” he said. He thrust out a hand. “Scrape’s my road name. But the name my parents gave me back when they thought they’d make good parents is Hayden.”
I responded automatically, shaking his hand. His knuckles were rough with scars.
“You have a road name?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then with those curls of yours, I’ll call you Ebony Locks. Or maybe Brains, since you look smart with those glasses. And I do like smart women.”
“Really?” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. That’s what boys said to me before they tried to get my pants down.
But he laughed. “It’s true. Smart women and smooth whiskey.” He pulled out a large bottle of Old Crow, uncapped it, and took a long swallow before passing the bottle to me. “Finest dinner you can have on the road. Beans and bourbon.”
Surprised at myself, I took a swig.
While we waited for the beans to heat up, he turned on a battery-powered lantern and shared a handful of photos he kept in a pocket. A brother. A younger sister.
I found myself showing him pictures of Russ and my mom. “She studied at Juilliard,” I told him. “Her dream was to play at Carnegie Hall. She would have made it.”
“What happened?”
“My dad.”
I showed him my favorite picture — the one of my mom standing inside Union Station. Dimitria stood on the stairs that led from the Great Hall up to the elegant mezzanine. It was impossible to tell whether she was ascending or descending. Either way, she was radiant in her green gown with her throat and shoulders bare, her curls swept into an updo.
“You look like her,” Hayden said.
But I shook my head.
After we ate, we curled up in our sleeping bags on opposite sides of the platform and watched a storm ignite over the mountains. It was headed our way, shimmers of lightning illuminating a bruised sky.
Not long after, the train started up again.
I woke in the pitch black. The rain sheeted down. I snuggled down into my sleeping bag, and that’s when I realized Hayden was next to me.
“You were screaming,” he said into my ear.
I’d been having a dream that Endcott hunted for me. He walked along the train, shining his mega-beam flashlight into every car, tilting his head back to sniff the air like a hunting dog. He was muscle and claws and teeth. When he found me, I saw myself through his eyes: a mouse in a trap.
The wind turned, and rain came in sideways, sluicing across the platform. It felt hard enough to sweep us right off the train.
“You’re shivering,” Hayden said. He propped himself up and turned on the lamp, so our little space glowed beneath the tarp.
I huddled against him and his arm around me was hard with muscle. He braced himself to keep us from sliding on the slick floor as the train rocked.
“You smell good.” His voice was slurred.
We were both at least a little drunk.
I considered turning toward him to offer my lips to his. Then his hand found my breast.
“Stop!” I kicked back against him.
But he just shifted and moved back in. “I can keep you warm.”
What I smelled on him now was a carnivore reek of adrenaline and wildness. I’d smelled it often enough on my dad, right before he drew back a fist.
“No, Hayden. No.” I talked to him like he was one of my dad’s dogs. Firm. No room for argument.
“Come on,” he said. “I fed you. Gave you bourbon.”
We swayed as the train rounded a bend, helpless against the tidal force of the rails. We were helpless against almost everything. Whether we were smart or stupid, weak or bold. Whether we were coddled as children or scorned. Birth strands us on uncertain ground and it’s up to us to find our footing. Many of us never do.
He rolled me onto my back. Water dripped from his dreadlocks into my eyes. I hadn’t been this cold since the time my dad took me hunting and couldn’t get a fire started.
Men, I realized, were like trains. Single-minded, relentless, chewing through whatever got in their way.
As Hayden groped, my terror built — a known and familiar thing. This was violence wound into what should be sacred. Ownership where there should be gifts given and received.
An image rose of my mom’s broken hand. Her voice saying, I was going to play at Carnegie Hall.
Fury lifted in me like a black, viscous liquid. I was filled with it, as if my blood had turned to pitch and then caught fire and now boiled beneath my skin.
I pulled up my knee and stretched my hand toward my ankle. My fingers found the knife hilt and I yanked the blade free.
“I’ll cut you!” I yelled.
He lifted his head, looked at me in surprise.
I didn’t mean for it to happen. The threat was meant to be enough. But the train jerked, and he rolled forward, and the handle slipped in my rain-slick hand. Without resistance, the blade popped through his flesh and bit deep.
He yelped and fell back. Blood filled his cupped hand. “What did you do?”
“I’m sorry!” I cried. “Oh my god, I’m sorry.” I yanked off my sweatshirt, wanting to stop the flow of blood.
He stared at me with wild eyes, then scooted away. I heard him scrabbling across the platform. The wind caught the tarp and sent it sailing into the dark. The lantern fell over.
“Let me help,” I called to him. “Please.”
The train curled into another bend. He struggled for purchase, and as the train righted again, he slid along the platform toward the crushing gap between the cars.
“Hayden!” I screamed.
For a second, as he teetered on the edge, I saw the boy as his parents must have seen him. Back when they still thought it was a good idea to be parents.