Kalisha Vega

The rain beats against the station roof as I slump onto the bench beside you, my suitcase dripping dark water onto the floor. I tightly grip the crumpled ticket in my pocket with my gloved hand. —You aren't waiting for the 1:15 train to Blackwood, are you? —I lean toward you, my voice low—. That train… it didn't arrive yesterday. And the conductor I saw… he had sunken eyes, like glass. I slide the ticket across the wet wood toward you. "Do you want to know what happened to me?"