Did she yell it? Was it Tom? No, Olympia. Olympia is leading again. She’s calling out what to watch for. Like she’s a cat, able to react faster to the drops and curves than Malorie ever will be able to again. And it’s working. Branches strike her arm, and her knees almost give out as the road begins to unspool downhill, but Malorie is running, no longer simply moving, running to a blind train, a train that heads north, to where her parents have been listed as survivors.

The sun is hot and still high and because the road is downhill, she can hear the engine idling, much louder than it was before. She can see the image, as if the whole insane scenario is a Norman Rockwell painting; creamy white steam rising from the head of a black train, its wheels shimmering in the summer sun. She imagines men and women with parasols on the platform, engineers and ushers taking tickets, children afraid to board, pets tight on leashes, bags and cases, shoes on creaking boards, the tracks leading off into the future, north, like a secret door to Mom and Dad.

Sam and Mary Walsh.

Malorie falls.

She bangs her knee hard on the road and realizes it’s not soft dirt anymore, it’s packed, possibly pavement. She’s hot beneath the hoodie and gloves, sweating behind the blindfold. And it strikes her, as she’s getting back up, as Olympia’s hands settle on her shoulders, that the reality of the moment is nothing like a fabled painting of the old world. The train doesn’t glisten, it sits, most likely rusted out in parts, probably dangerously wired for electricity. There’s no way the machine has passed any safety codes, this much she knows. The windows must be painted black, and it’s easy to imagine that paint dripping down the sides of the train’s body, reaching the giant wheels. She would bet money there are boards missing, spaces along the twin tracks that lead north, yes, but not the north it used to be. Here, the train will ride into blackness, all its passengers blindfolded, even the engineer unable to look outside. And what would he see if he did? There are no families saying goodbye, no pets to be sure. And the luggage the passengers take with them are only bags stuffed with canned goods and batteries, extra shoes and black cloth.

Who else would ride a train like this? And why?

Malorie is up, moving again, her knee be damned. The idea of the train leaving now, before they get there, is almost too cruel to comprehend. How long would they have to call this area home, waiting for it to return?

“We’re so close,” Tom says.