the father’s body down the steps and roll it into an open trunk. And then she watched the house grow bright with fire that reached through the windows and made the snow steam.
She had run then. Run without thinking—through the night, the skeins of snow—gnashing her teeth and trying to ignore the pain in her wrist and her heart. It wasn’t her plan to jump the train—she had no plan except the single-minded impulse to escape—until she heard the banshee cry of its whistle.
Tracks cleaved through the center of town, and she could see the freight cars snaking darkly through the trees. The ground tremored—even the air seemed to shake—when she burst from the woods and scampered slantingly up the gravel berm. The train was long and she could not see the engine, but she heard the faraway blast of its whistle and guessed it was nearly within city limits. The cars slowed. The wind tried to push her back. The wheels kicked up ice. The clattering roar took over every other sound in the world. She raced perilously close, reaching out with her good hand—its knuckles furred over, its fingers curled into pointed tips—and snatched hold of a short steel ladder. Her feet dragged behind her, skidding across the snow and gravel, until she hooked her other arm onto the ladder, bracing her elbow against a rung. She used her last bit of energy to haul herself up and crawl to the rear platform of a freight car, where she curled up on herself, trying to create a pocket of warmth, and only then, when she retreated into her human form, did she cry.
Deep in the night, the train lumbered into Minneapolis and came to a screeching stop at a grain elevator. She rose wearily from the freight car and wandered away in a daze, her ears aching, her body humming. She was in an industrial area. Factories. Storage centers. Big metal warehouses stained with murals of rust. Machinery hummed. Steam rose in arching columns like bridges to the moon. There was no snow here, or if there was, it had melted, but it was cold all the same and she crossed her arms against the wind and the pain nested in her wrist. She found a road with no sidewalk and walked along its grassy shoulder. She had no plan. She just wanted to feel as though she was moving, putting distance between her and whoever she felt still pursued her.
A parade of semitrailers motored by and she could feel the drivers’ eyes on her. Twenty yards ahead, one of the trucks pulled over with a chirp of air brakes and clicked on its hazards. The passenger door kicked open, and when she walked by it, a man was leaning out, a thin-faced man with a gray goatee, asking if she needed a ride.
“No,” she said automatically. She looked down the road as though her ride might come around the bend any minute now, then back at him. The cab of the truck, high above her, was brightly lit and seemed as big as a house. She imagined it was warm too. “I don’t know.”
He regarded her and chewed at his lower lip. “Look. I got a daughter about your age, and if I saw her walking around a place like this, middle of the night and all, I’d want her to get home.”
When he said that, she felt at once horribly depressed and comforted. She wanted to tell him everything, to let it out in a sobbing gush. Instead she said, in a small voice that barely carried over the noise of the engine, “I can’t go home.”
He dropped his head in consideration and then looked at her sadly from under his eyebrows. “Then I’d want her to get herself someplace safe.” He laid his hand on the door handle and pulled it inward an inch. “Your decision.”
She knew she could overpower him if she had to—assuming he didn’t have a gun—though she couldn’t imagine her body suffering through another transformation. She decided to trust him. She needed to trust somebody right now. She took a deep, steadying breath and climbed into the cab.
It smelled like chewing tobacco and stale French fries. He gave her a long
She had run then. Run without thinking—through the night, the skeins of snow—gnashing her teeth and trying to ignore the pain in her wrist and her heart. It wasn’t her plan to jump the train—she had no plan except the single-minded impulse to escape—until she heard the banshee cry of its whistle.
Tracks cleaved through the center of town, and she could see the freight cars snaking darkly through the trees. The ground tremored—even the air seemed to shake—when she burst from the woods and scampered slantingly up the gravel berm. The train was long and she could not see the engine, but she heard the faraway blast of its whistle and guessed it was nearly within city limits. The cars slowed. The wind tried to push her back. The wheels kicked up ice. The clattering roar took over every other sound in the world. She raced perilously close, reaching out with her good hand—its knuckles furred over, its fingers curled into pointed tips—and snatched hold of a short steel ladder. Her feet dragged behind her, skidding across the snow and gravel, until she hooked her other arm onto the ladder, bracing her elbow against a rung. She used her last bit of energy to haul herself up and crawl to the rear platform of a freight car, where she curled up on herself, trying to create a pocket of warmth, and only then, when she retreated into her human form, did she cry.
Deep in the night, the train lumbered into Minneapolis and came to a screeching stop at a grain elevator. She rose wearily from the freight car and wandered away in a daze, her ears aching, her body humming. She was in an industrial area. Factories. Storage centers. Big metal warehouses stained with murals of rust. Machinery hummed. Steam rose in arching columns like bridges to the moon. There was no snow here, or if there was, it had melted, but it was cold all the same and she crossed her arms against the wind and the pain nested in her wrist. She found a road with no sidewalk and walked along its grassy shoulder. She had no plan. She just wanted to feel as though she was moving, putting distance between her and whoever she felt still pursued her.
A parade of semitrailers motored by and she could feel the drivers’ eyes on her. Twenty yards ahead, one of the trucks pulled over with a chirp of air brakes and clicked on its hazards. The passenger door kicked open, and when she walked by it, a man was leaning out, a thin-faced man with a gray goatee, asking if she needed a ride.
“No,” she said automatically. She looked down the road as though her ride might come around the bend any minute now, then back at him. The cab of the truck, high above her, was brightly lit and seemed as big as a house. She imagined it was warm too. “I don’t know.”
He regarded her and chewed at his lower lip. “Look. I got a daughter about your age, and if I saw her walking around a place like this, middle of the night and all, I’d want her to get home.”
When he said that, she felt at once horribly depressed and comforted. She wanted to tell him everything, to let it out in a sobbing gush. Instead she said, in a small voice that barely carried over the noise of the engine, “I can’t go home.”
He dropped his head in consideration and then looked at her sadly from under his eyebrows. “Then I’d want her to get herself someplace safe.” He laid his hand on the door handle and pulled it inward an inch. “Your decision.”
She knew she could overpower him if she had to—assuming he didn’t have a gun—though she couldn’t imagine her body suffering through another transformation. She decided to trust him. She needed to trust somebody right now. She took a deep, steadying breath and climbed into the cab.
It smelled like chewing tobacco and stale French fries. He gave her a long
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