For once, there was no flicker of lightning in Christopher's eyes. The last shreds of willingness and determination had melted away into a strange mix of exhaustion, confusion, and grief.
The wind had finally been taken out of Christopher's sails. He gazed sorrowfully down the railroad track.
Henry perhaps was miles and miles away from here now.
We all slogged on in a near dreamlike daze. The railroad tracks stretched on forever.
We came upon a small junction. The little switch house was empty and deserted, the railroad tracks that we followed were well maintained, the other was infested with weeds and tall grass.
Drawn by curiosity, we walked over to the switch house. It was covered with graffiti, the spray paint streaking downward. The original white paint was flaking away.
Curious, we opened to switch house door. I gently coaxed the rusty latch, until it finally gave way , and the door squeaked open on it's worn hinges.
Inside there was a rickety wooden chair and a desk. Trash was strewn across the floor. The levers that controlled the switches had been removed long ago.
A faded map of the railroad was pasted on the wall above the desk. The edges were curling where the paste had lost it's grip.
George sat down on the chair in quiet exhaustion. Christopher and I leaned against the wall. We were too tired to speak. All we could hear was the quiet rustle of the trees and the gentle tweets of the birds. High above, storm clouds were brewing.
YOU ARE READING
Boxcar Boys
Adventure"Make a run for it!" That's what we hear every time we go freight hopping. The bulls, the cops, the train crew, heck, even our grannys are practically after us. They call us the Boxcar Boys. We hop freight trains, for the fun of it. But hey, it's t...
