From where Morgan was standing, he could see the edge of that black leather jacket, but he wasn’t going to say anything, because the young man was the least irritating person he’d encountered since he’d arrived in Hysham.
“We’d be happy to carry your groceries upstairs, Morgan,” Young Tommy said, waving his hat at the brown bags.
“Seeing as you’re a bit inconvenienced by your leg, sir,” Deputy Hartland added.
Morgan hadn’t wanted the three old geezers in the apartment, with all the dust and his aunt’s belongings, not to mention his two suitcases sitting open pathetically on the bedroom floor, so why would he let these two anywhere near that?
It would be easier to limp up the stairs and down again, each bag requiring its own trip, than to endure their dismay upon seeing the disaster and the small space he’d scraped out for himself. Similarly, he was going to refuse any offers to come clean for him, to help him poke through his aunt’s things, and to hustle him into a future that he simply did not want.
That confusing whirl of thoughts always brought him to a dead end full of unanswerable questions as to what was going to happen next. Where his life would take him. He had no idea. He just wanted to sit down, gaze at the fire in the pot-bellied stove in the office, and wait for it all to be over.
“Look,” Morgan said, taking slow, even breaths. “I’m going to be fine. It’s just a little snow.”
Young Tommy laughed a bit and then nodded, putting on his plastic-covered hat. Deputy Hartland followed suit.
“It’s more than a little snow, sir, but you look well prepared, so we’ll leave you to it,” Young Tommy said. “We just like to look after our own in this town.”
Well, Morgan wasn’t one of their own, and he wasn’t sticking around in the middle of nowhere any longer than he had to. He saw them out, thumping his cane behind them, then locked the door and flipped the sign to Closed.
CHAPTER 2
nimble
The rhythm of the BNSF freight car had fused into Nimble’s bones. Which made standing on the ground with the early October snow swirling all around him feel like being on the moving floor of a fun house.
He steadied himself against the sensation of falling and held up the three bottles of water he’d stolen from the inviting coffee shop on the edge of the small town. Which caused the two foil-wrapped sausage-and-egg biscuits tucked in the crook of his elbow to tumble to the ground.
Ignoring them, he held the waters up even higher and spared a glance at the town—and at the red and blue bubbles on the white SUV throwing up snow from its rear tires, though thankfully it seemed to be heading away from the railroad tracks rather than toward them.
“C’mon, Blue, take ’em,” Nimble said. He blinked against the white flakes that grew more sharp and fierce even as he stood there. “I gotta get back on. Star said he wasn’t sure how long the train will stay.”
Star was their expert on freight trains, locomotive engines, and schedules, and seemed to have memorized a map of all the trains in the country. Except this time, the train they’d been onhad taken a westerly route along the southern Montana border rather than the northern route they’d expected.
Star had said he thought they were on some kind of spur line, but he didn’t know why. He also didn’t know where it went or how long until it again met up with the main line. Nimble wasn’t too worried. Star had guided them well thus far.
Blue wasn’t saying anything, merely looking at Nimble with those cold blue eyes of his. But that was like Blue.
“Come down off there and take these, will ya?”
Off theremeant the top of the boxcar, where they’d scrambled to avoid being seen as the freight trundled slowly into the sleepiest town in the middle of nowhere.
Nimble didn’t know the name of the town, only that they were headed west to the warm California coast. He could ask Star and find out exactly where they were, if only Blue would take the bottles of water.
Nimble could climb the spindly metal ladder to the top of the boxcar easily enough with one or two bottles, but not with three. Plus, he needed to grab the biscuits from the snowy ground. They’d need something to fill their bellies while they waited for the train to move.
“Blue,” Nimble called, raising his voice.
“In a sec,” Blue replied. “Jeez, Nimble, chill.”
Nimble was his train name. All train hobos had one, regardless of how old or young they were. According to Star, this was a tradition dating back to the Depression era. Mysterious in origin. A way to honor those who came before.
“If we start going, you can jump,” Blue said, still not making any move to grab the waters.
Nimble’s breath hitched in his chest. Only a month before, along the main track in eastern Michigan, a hobo named Strider, a few years older than Nimble, had missed the grab whenattempting to swing onto a flatcar in motion and gotten crushed by the trucks before getting both his legs sliced off.
Nimble could still remember the crunch of bones, the hot smell of diesel and grease and salt as Strider’s blood flew up in a red arc in the summer air. The train had rolled for a ways, then squealed to a stop.
People in cars waiting at the railroad crossing had surely seen the whole thing, heard Strider’s screams, and called 911. Which meant that Nimble and Blue and Star had to skedaddle off the train on the other side or get discovered by the local law and thrown in jail.
