his foot back, and
kicked hard at the lock. Something broke. He pulled the door open.

He was looking out the open door and through the window beyond. There
was no platform, just the same dry fields he could see on the other
side. He came out and went along to his seat. The car was empty now.

He looked out the window. Why had the train stopped here? Maybe there
was some kind of trouble with the engine. It had been sitting here for
ten minutes or so now. Brett got up and went along to the door, stepped
down onto the iron step. Leaning out, he could see the train stretching
along ahead, one car, two cars--

There was no engine.

Maybe he was turned around. He looked the other way. There were three
cars. No engine there either. He must be on some kind of siding ...

Brett stepped back inside, and pushed through into the next car. It was
empty. He walked along the length of it, into the next car. It was empty
too. He went back through the two cars and his own car and on, all the
way to the end of the train. All the cars were empty. He stood on the
platform at the end of the last car, and looked back along the rails.
They ran straight, through the dry fields, right to the horizon. He
stepped down to the ground, went along the cindery bed to the front of
the train, stepping on the ends of the wooden ties. The coupling stood
open. The tall, dusty coach stood silently on its iron wheels, waiting.
Ahead the tracks went on--

And stopped.

He walked along the ties, following the iron rails, shiny on top, and
brown with rust on the sides. A hundred feet from the train they ended.
The cinders went on another ten feet and petered out. Beyond, the fields
closed in. Brett looked up at the sun. It was lower now in the west, its
light getting yellow and late-afternoonish. He turned and looked back at
the train. The cars stood high and prim, empty, silent. He walked back,
climbed in, got his bag down from the rack, pulled on his jacket. He
jumped down to the cinders, followed them to where they ended. He
hesitated a moment, then pushed between the knee-high stalks. Eastward
across the field he could see what looked like a smudge on the far
horizon.

He walked until dark, then made himself a nest in the dead stalks, and
went to sleep.

* * *

He lay on his back, looking up at pink dawn clouds. Around him, dry
stalks rustled in a faint stir of air. He felt crumbly earth under his
fingers. He sat up, reache