“Mr. McCredie.” He marched up to where the old man, wearing a smart bow tie for the occasion, was setting out beautiful crystal glasses that were giving Carmen conniptions in case somebody broke one. “I need to talk to you about the third carriage from the back. It’s jumping.”

Mr. McCredie wiped his glasses. “Well, it’s old, Patrick. Old things don’t always work so well.”

“No,” said Patrick. “It’s absolutely not working properly. I need to pick it up.”

“Patrick, don’t touch the train set,” warned Ramsay, trying to hold back Hari, who was ready to pick up anything if Patrick wanted it.

Carmen looked over to see what was happening. The little boy was pointing at a carriage that suddenly looked oddly familiar to her. She blinked.

“She wants me to,” said Patrick. “Carmen knows.”

Carmen froze suddenly and turned around. “Who wants you to, Patrick?” she said.

“Oh, you know,” said Patrick carelessly.

“Which carriage exactly?” she found herself asking, her brain twisting. It couldn’t possibly be. She was tired and confused and very, very nervous.

“That one.”

It had been there all along. Right before her. No. This wasn’t possible.

Mr. McCredie bent carefully over the track with Patrick. “What do you mean?” he said.

“Watch that carriage. It isn’t running properly.”

Carmen had her heart in her throat. Turning away from Zoe, she came closer to the track and knelt down as the train rattled on its way. Along with Patrick and Mr. McCredie, she followed the little carriage with the molded plastic figures inside—why had it never occurred to her before? Why not? Because it seemed so obvious now: that of course the train in her dream was the train in the shop.

And the carriage—now passing by the little station—had three little figures in it: two men and a woman in an old-fashioned hat. It was the same woman.

“It’s that one,” Patrick said. “Watch it as it gets to the tunnel.”

And as it rattled toward the little mountain tunnel, Carmen found her heart beating dangerously fast and that she was holding her breath. The woman—her mouth opening—desperately trying to tell her something . . . It wasn’t possible.

Just before the little train entered the tunnel, they all saw it. The carriage made a little jump, nearly coming off its tracks, recovering just in time as it disappeared, then trundled out the other side.

“It’s mis . . . misa . . . misalingilated,” said Patrick.

“Do you mean misaligned?” said Mr. McCredie.

“I do exactly mean that,” said Patrick.

Neither of them was paying any attention to Carmen, who was still staring at the little carriage in fear.

Mr. McCredie shut the train set off from running and very, very carefully picked the carriage up, unbolting it from the other carriages.

“There’s something weighing it down,” he said. “It’s dragging everything else off.”