I guess this is it.
I run my hand along the side of the train, my fingers grazing the names roughly carved into the side. It’s tradition, I think, that you scratch your name onto the side of the train before you board it. There must be over a hundred names carved into the side of this train, all of them stepped inside, and all of them were never seen again. Those who chose to board were nicknamed, “The Hopeless,” With people throwing the title around like a dirty word, as if they...
