“You’re welcome,” Dean says. “And so you know, this car is already stocked with cans and water. It’s all in the cupboard beside the mirror. The windows are indeed blacked out. In fact, there is technically no window at all in this car, as all the glass on the sides of the train has been replaced with sheet metal, painted black. I’ve never seen this train from the outside, for reasons you can easily guess. But I assume it’s a bit like Frankenstein. Pieces, brought together, brought to life. I’m so glad you guys made it.”

“Thank you,” Malorie says again. There is a finality in her tone. But she’s not the last one to speak to Dean.

“Thank you,” Olympia says. “This is all…overwhelming.”

“It’s so great,” Tom says.

Malorie wonders if Dean is judging her. Does he look from her blindfolded teens to her, covered in cloth? Does a sympathetic expression adorn his face? Does he think he knows what’s right and what isn’t? Even for her?

She sets her bag down. It doesn’t matter. That’s enough loosening up for one day. For one lifetime.

“The trip to Mackinaw City is about two days, barring any delays,” Dean says. “To some that sounds like nothing, to others an eternity. If you need me for any reason, I’m usually in the dining car. And while that sounds like I’m living it up, it really means David and I are working on new ideas or talking to Tanya, checking on Michael. But,” he pauses, “at least there’s some music.” Then, “I hope to see you in there, Jill.”

Malorie breathes in, holds it, breathes out.

“You won’t,” she says.

Is it Dean who sighs? Or Tom?

“Okay,” Dean says. “Please, enjoy.”

He steps into the hall, and Malorie slides the door closed behind him.

Then, for the first time since making the train, she allows the swaying to take her. As if she’s on a singular wave, traversing the entire distance between herself and her parents.

Mom and Dad might be at the end of this line. They might be anywhere in the world. They might also be buried. She imagines stepping off the train, crossing a bridge, searching St. Ignace for Sam and Mary Walsh.

It feels good, necessary, to let herself be taken. For someone else to be in charge of the events to follow. It’s a feeling she hasn’t experienced in seventeen years.

She’s so briefly relieved to be alone in this room, the door closed behind her, that it doesn’t quite bother her when Tom speaks. When he says, “I like him, Mom. I like that man.”

FOURTEEN