The conductor hollered the final boarding call, and the soldiers on the platform gently pried themselves from their loved ones’ embraces and hurried over to the train. With the last man boarded, the whistle blew out three short bursts. Charlie flinched as memories of the textile-factory whistle twitched through his muscles. He hated the piercing sound, always chastising him and his brother when they were late for their shifts. Each shrill whistle warning them of the punishment that awaited them at both the factory and at home. After echoes of the last whistle faded from Charing Cross, Charlie sagged with relief. The train was finally leaving the station, taking him far from London and his father’s reach.

As a group of older soldiers filed past, Charlie inched lower in his seat and feigned sleep. Ignoring the three empty seats around him, the soldiers headed to the front of the car.

A younger soldier with short, tidy black hair, a barely there mustache, round-framed glasses, and a pristine uniform boarded the train after them. His head held high, he strode past, looking down his upturned nose at the train’s musty, stained seats and their temporary occupants. His disdainful gaze glided past Charlie like he was part of the worn upholstery.

Charlie was not surprised. There was nothing remarkable about him. His average height, slight build, gray eyes, and dingy brown hair made him forgettable, which was fine with Charlie. He preferred to blend into the scenery, where he could watch, but not be forced to interact with the world. In fact, the only aspect of Charlie that stuck out were his ears, which he was convinced he’d never grow into, even if he lived to be one hundred and two.

When the tidy soldier looked back in his search for a seat, Charlie averted his eyes and pulled his thin, straight hair down over his ears. Thankfully, the soldier chose a seat midway down the car, distancing himself from both the soldiers at the front and Charlie in the back. Charlie watched the soldier wipe the city streets from his shoes with a handkerchief before returning his attention to the world outside the window.

The train shuddered and lurched forward. The people on the platform waved and clutched one another for support while their eyes scoured each window, searching for a final glimpse of their loved ones. Bile rose in Charlie’s throat as he scanned the crowd for the one face he prayed to never see again, but only strangers stared back. With a relieved sigh, he rested his head against the back of his seat and watched the station platform inch by. As the cars groaned and tugged against the pull of the engine, Charlie noticed two boys in uniforms running onto the platform with a bobby hot on their heels.

The taller of the two soldiers spotted Charlie watching. “Stop the train!” he yelled.

Charlie sank lower in his seat, praying the train would keep going. He had to get out of London before his father found him. He stared down at his bleeding fingers clutching the scratchy cloth of his army trousers. He shouldn’t have looked out the window. He knew better. Make no sound. Make no trouble. Make no eye contact. That was how he’d survived the last fourteen years. He took a deep breath and opened his notebook to a clean page. Drawing always calmed his nerves. He placed the tip of his pencil on the paper and looked around the car for something or someone to sketch. He’d settled on drawing the tidy soldier when a hand slapped against his window, sending him scrambling over his armrest into the next seat.