It feels incredible. Standing outside as the world whips by. He’s not walking. He’s not rowing. He’s not being told what to do.

He opens his eyes. He turns his head to the left.

Through the glasses, his glasses, he sees the world passing.

Trees. Signs. They don’t stay in sight quite long enough for him to read. But he sees letters. Outside. In the real world.

He smiles.

This is incredible.

He looks right.

More of it, only the horizon seems to stretch into forever in this direction.

Are there any creatures out there? Is he looking at one now? Through the glasses he made? The exact kind of glasses that could be written about in the census man’s book of discoveries?

The feeling is overwhelming. Who cares if he got slapped? He almost wants to thank Malorie for doing it. He wants to thank her for giving him reason to leave her side.

Indian River.

The city name comes to him in giant letters, surrounded by trees and street signs. He imagines Indian River has horizons like the one he’s looking at now. Endless sights and a lot of people who want to see them.

Athena Hantz.

A woman who doesn’t think like Malorie. A woman who thinks like him.

The world passes. Greens and browns. Signs. Homes. A fence.

It’s wonderful.

Tom feels like he could do anything. Absolutely anything he’s ever wanted to.

The door opens in front of him. He looks to see a man coming toward him, a man with his eyes closed. But this isn’t just any man. This is Dean Watts.

Tom steps aside, watches as Dean Watts, the owner and creator of this very train, passes him, opens the next door, steps through, and slides it closed again.

The feeling is unbelievable. Like he’s fooled even the smartest man on the train. The man who brought the train back from the dead.

He doesn’t want this moment to end. He wants it to last another sixteen years. Outside, eyes open, free.

He steps to the end of the platform between cars. This is where someone would jump if they wanted to. This is where Dean might’ve thrown someone off, too.

Tom sits, cross-legged, glasses on. The wind comes at him, and he raises his arms.

He feels it. All of it. Every bit of this moment in time.

Nobody is out here with him. Nobody passes between the cars.

And nobody, absolutely nobody, tells him what to do.

TWENTY

Malorie knows it’s Dean before she runs into him, before he speaks. She’s not convinced her other senses have gotten stronger in the new world, but she can smell certain people and places seconds before reaching them.

“Malorie,” Dean says. “Are you well?”