Trot sits with his legs hanging out of the boxcar, smoking a cigarette. Turns back to Anne and Cinnamon and says, “It’s true. She told me that, and I said, ‘You gotta get out of this town. There’s an entire world out there you ain’t ever seen.’”

The day passes. Everyone sits with their backs pressed into the car’s wall. Digging into their packs, sharing what snacks they have. Snickers bars. Apples.

Passing through landscapes and towns, they watch for signs. The train slows, stops to reconnect to other tracks. They wait and watch, see a sign for Durant. Then there’s the crunch of gravel. Feet digging in. Lungs huffing. Trot glances out of the boxcar as a backpack tumbles in through the door opening. One hand braces on the door; the other slaps down on the floor. With a grunt, a young man swings up, hooks a heel on the floor, and lizard-crawls into the car.

Eyes meet as he flops onto his back on the stained and splintered floor. Cinnamon stands over him and yells, “Doc?”

Rolling over onto his elbows, he grins. Gets to his feet and says, “Well, I’ll be dipped in dog shit. Cinnamon?”

Behind him comes more heavy breathing, and another pack thuds into the boxcar, followed by another body. Another and another. One by one, more train hoppers share space with Anne, Cinnamon, Canary, and Trot. Bringing more life, more energy, to the band of travelers.

Doc’s black derby hat makes him look like a bartender in a Wild West saloon but for the orange feather stuck in it. He has tattoos under his eyes, but they are too smudged by dirt for Anne to make out the images. A thick, curly beard and mustache, dirty bandanna around the neck, T-shirt and vest, and raggedy Carhartts with a hammer loop. Combat boots complete the ensemble. His arms spread wide, wrapping around Cinnamon. “Oh my Lord, where have you been? It’s been six months or better. Thought that crazy you bunked with from time to time had maybe eaten you.”

“Good news is there’s no more Dredd!” Cinnamon bubbles. “These are my friends, my new family.”