By the time I cleaned up and came downstairs, the house was busy. Emergency care workers had begun to arrive. Madame Vaugeois and Maria were overwhelmed. Miriam was coordinating. I shouldered my backpack and walked out of there. Daniel was digging in the garden. He looked up at me and nodded. I nodded back and came down the driveway next to the vegetable garden. I turned right at the road. Father Bousquet’s white Volkswagen and Nazari’s Peugeot hadn’t been moved yet, but Bousquet’s body was being taken care of by a team of firemen. They were cutting it out of the wreckage. I walked past them and over the bridge, past Fanny’s Friperie, and into town.

The train station was busy for a Wednesday afternoon. I looked up at the departures board, and matched destination names with locations on the map. I bought a ticket to the city of Tours. From there I could catch an overnight train into the Iberian Peninsula, or maybe cut the other way, down through the south of France toward Italy. The Mediterranean suddenly sounded pretty good.

Whatever, I’d take it one step at a time.

The train was waiting patiently at the platform. Passengers were already getting comfortable in their seats. There were groups of travelers chatting excitedly, solo travelers reading books, or immersed in their own world, cocooned in headphones. After a while I came to the rail car at the back, the one that had the old style seating. I walked by several compartments that had already been taken and found an empty one. The curtains drew closed and I found a seat facing forward. I leaned my head against my backpack and closed my eyes. I got that old familiar feeling, free falling through a cloudless blue sky. Nothing but air around me. Down below an incredible and remote landscape. I’d get there, eventually, but not yet.

When I opened my eyes again, the train was moving at speed. Chugging down the line through open fields. The sun was up and it was a glorious day. I wasn’t alone in the compartment. There were five of us. Directly in front of me was a young woman. She was in her twenties, strawberry blonde hair, long nose, high cheekbones, slim and attractive. She was looking at me as if she knew me. Then I recognized her, the librarian in the floral print dress. She wasn’t wearing the same dress. She was in jeans and a light cream-colored sweater. She smiled and leaned forward. I leaned forward, and we met in the middle.

She spoke quietly. “You remember me.”

I nodded. “I do. From the library.”

She smiled. “You never came back to see me. I was waiting for you.”

“Things got busy I guess, I’m sorry about that.”

“No big deal. That happens all the time. I don’t take it personally.”