Edwin chortled. “Those are bones. In a bin.” He frowned. “And, as you may have noticed before you nodded off, not nearly enough. There’s more work to do. And I would imagine your bones are every bit as good as your hair.”

“What are you talking about? What two-step process?”

Edwin thought about the question. “The first step in the process is to build my creation here. Sourcing the right materials. Like yourself, and others, or animals, or personal items I have liberated from people and worked into the project. The bones are like framing. The blood for coloring. The hair for grasses. A lost comb is fashioned into a miniature rake. A pen is an electric pole. That way, it all becomes very organic. You see what I’m saying?”

Gavin, trying to buy some time, but also, despite overwhelming fear, undeniably curious, asked, “Like a living thing?”

Edwin laughed. “Well, not quite. But made up of what was living, and what was attached to the living. That’s what gives it its essence, and when it has that, then I can run the trains through it, so that they can absorb that essence. It’s all very technical. I hope I’m not boring you.”

“No, go on. Tell me more. I’m . . . I’m interested.”

Edwin smiled, understanding that Gavin was trying to buy time. But he took pleasure in explaining what he did. “Quality control has always been something of an issue. It can be difficult to measure how much each train has absorbed, how much happenstance it carries, so you send it off into a household and you don’t know what you’re going to get. Will Mom get a simple paper cut, or will she fall down the stairs and break her neck? Will a toddler get his finger caught in a drawer or end up at the bottom of the pool? But something will happen, and that’s what matters.”

Edwin dropped into his chair again and crossed his legs. “I’ve been at this a long time. Have my own area of specialty. There are lots of us out there, working in the sliver. Finding our own ways to insinuate ourselves into people’s lives.” He smiled, waved an arm at his handiwork. “I chose this. It works for me. It meets . . . a creative need. Not that there aren’t other ways to go about it. And I’ll admit, I’m a bit tired. You might be inclined to think that someone—something—such as myself lives forever. That those of my ilk never die. That we have always been and always will be. Well, that’s simply not true, my friend. I wouldn’t mind turning over the business to someone else one day, but you need the right candidate. They wouldn’t have to do it with trains. Art, perhaps. A lovely painting you could hang on your wall that made the magic happen.”