There was a moment before I boarded the train when I had considered turning around and running back toward my empty life. I’d stood frozen on the platform as people buzzed by, wondering if I’d tricked myself into believing I had the ability to be someone who left on a train, trusting that there was a better life for me in California. Had I been too blinded by the beauty of Cal’s golden smile to realize I was making a mistake? I’d spent the majority of my childhood hating Chicago because I felt like a stranger on its streets. The idea of starting over in a new city where I could end up even more alien was daunting. Thanks to my father’s lack of belief in me and Maks’ abundance, I got on the train and held my breath as it chugged out West.

It was strange to crane my neck and watch the skyline of the city fade away. I’d spent so much time feeling minuscule in relation to the skyscrapers’ majesty, yet each hulking structure was little more than a speck of dust through my new vantage point.

To say I was uncomfortable on the train was an understatement. Not only was forty hours on the rails an inordinately long time, I spent it sitting next to an Orthodox rabbi. His name was Shmuel Friedman and I had heard his entire life story by the time we reached Des Moines. I didn’t mind listening to him speak, but when he started to ask me about myself, I became uncomfortable.

“And what is it that is calling you to California, young man?” he asked, as if it was a simple question to answer, as if it had not taken me nearly a year to decide to make the momentous move.

Staring out the window at the spread of cornfields blurring yellow beyond the glass, I thought of Cal as a child, kneeling over enormous emerald leaves, fingers blistered from the labor, skin scarlet from the sun. It was effortful to imagine Cal having ever stayed on his family’s farm in Georgia. The loss for the legions of people whose lives he had touched would be immense. Without him, I feared I would have not found a modicum of the might it had taken me to open myself to someone, to experience emotions worth unearthing.

“Hope,” I answered tentatively.