His first idea was to open the lid and reach in. Nobody knows any more about the creatures now than they did seventeen years ago, but Dean believes some things must be assumed. For example, the space they take up. If Dean opens the casket and feels a dead body within, it stands to reason that there wouldn’t be space for a creature as well.

But Malorie has him questioning reason.

Is there any? Any more?

Who’s to know if they occupy any space, any of what people know space to be, at all?

He knocks a box off a table with his hip and bends to pick it up. He can tell by its weight that it’s clothing. He sets it on the table just as the train jolts, and he reaches out for balance. Finding none, he imagines the fingers of something that can drive him mad.

He opens the box of clothing.

Scarves. Winter hats. No gloves. That’s okay. Hats will do.

He uses two as gloves and, still blind, continues deeper into storage. The coffins are the first to be loaded in as they are typically the heaviest and can be used as a tabletop if need be. For this, he has to go all the way in.

“Malorie,” he says, “I hope you realize I’m braving this for you.”

He thinks of his staff, if such a word applies. David, Tanya, Michael, and Renee are only people looking for progress, no different than Dean. They’re more family than workmates, as they’ve done the impossible together: got a train running in the new world. He can’t have them getting hurt. He couldn’t live with that. It’d be like reliving the loss of his children, but possibly worse for not having learned the first time around.

He bumps a second table and, his hands covered with hats, he discovers he’s reached the coffins.

Two of them. To be delivered to Mackinaw City. Those who have asked for them will take them from there and bury them wherever they want them to be buried.

Dean breathes in. Holds it. Breathes out.

In a world without pills or therapy, it’s as effective an anti-anxiety treatment as any he could imagine.

He feels along the wide wood surface of the first coffin.

It’s clear.

He opens the wood lid.

The smell is strong. Too strong. Dean turns his head and gags. He brings one of the hats to his mouth and gags again. Eyes closed, he can easily imagine what makes this smell. A decomposing body without what was once modern science to stave off the stench.

“Malorie,” he says again. “Thanks a lot.”

He reaches into the box and feels an arm. A chest. A second arm. Legs.

Then, the head.

He closes the lid.

He takes a few steps from the box and allows his breathing to return to normal.