Trust, but verify. —RR

Verify.

That word jumps out at me first among the words and sentences painted throughout the room—all of them drawn by a hand that I know as well as my own. Maybe better.

My mother was here. She was a part of this.

Whatever this is.

I ball my fingers into fists. My nails bite deep into my palms as I turn in a circle. “My mother painted this.”

She must have been in this room for hours. It would have taken days, if not weeks, to create this entire scene.

Geeze nods. “Your mother had some help, but, yeah, the design for this train station was hers.”

“This is a train station?” It wasn’t like any train station I’d ever seen. For starters, there were no trains.

Geeze smirks. “The term was chosen by my grandfather and his friends to honor the Underground Railroad.”

“The what?” I ask.

Geeze shakes his head. “Sorry. I forgot that was edited out of your history. We’ll get to that another time. All you need to know for now is that this is what we call a station, and what happens next is what we refer to as ‘getting on the train.’” He takes a seat in a faded red chair and nods to the one across from him. “For this little adventure, I will be your Conductor.”

“My Conductor?” I step cautiously toward the raggedy yellow chair. Next to Geeze is a round end table with a box sitting in the center. There is no table next to the chair designated for me. “You’re going to tell me why my mother painted these walls and what she was doing before she died.”

“I’m going to tell you the truth.”

The truth.

I glace at the words snaking along the wall next to me.

He who knows nothing is nearer to truth than he whose mind is filled with falsehoods and errors. —TJ

“I promise I will answer all the questions about your mother I can, but I have to admit that I only met her once and just for a few minutes. My father was your mother’s Conductor. This was her train station. It was her experience almost two years ago that inspired her to create the design on the walls. Since then a number of our stations have undergone transformations to help make the transition onto the train a bit more . . . pleasant.”

“You make it sound as if we are going to do something dangerous.”

“Sometimes the most frightening leap is the one we make in our minds,” he says sternly. Then he shakes his head and laughs. “Sorry. It’s something my grandfather liked to say and my father repeats—a lot. Dad’s really good at this Conductor thing. I’m new to it, so I’m still working out the kinks. Developing my own style, you could say.”

“Maybe I should wait and talk to your father. Is he one of the other people the guy outside the door said is here?” I look back at the walls and the dozens of books pictured. Each one has a title on the spine. Most I’ve never heard of.