Chapter 3 — Between Stations
The emergency brakes locked with a metallic howl.
People slammed into one another.
A suitcase flew down the aisle.
Maisie lost her grip on the strap and crashed against me.
I wrapped one arm around her and grabbed a steel pole with the other.
The train stopped.
Darkness swallowed the car.
For several seconds, the only sounds were crying, swearing, and uneven breathing.
Then the emergency lights flickered red.
Maisie’s face had gone pale.
“My leg,” she whispered.
Her prosthetic foot was trapped beneath a collapsed luggage rack.
I crouched.
“Don’t move.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
The awkward reply almost made me smile.
Almost.
A man in a gray suit began pounding on the doors.
“Open them!”
“We’re inside a tunnel,” I said.
“I don’t care.”
“You will if another train comes through.”
He glared at me.
“What are you, a conductor?”
“Elevator mechanic.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No. Elevators usually fall vertically.”
A few nervous passengers laughed.
The tension broke slightly.
I examined the rack.
It had bent around Maisie’s prosthetic ankle.
“Does it hurt?”
“The leg doesn’t.”
She tapped her thigh.
“This part does.”
Blood had soaked through her jeans near the socket.
A woman offered a scarf.
Another passenger switched on a flashlight.
The same people who had ignored Maisie minutes earlier were suddenly trying to help.
Disaster made kindness easier.
Ordinary days were apparently harder.
I used a small wrench from my tool bag to loosen the metal bracket.
Maisie watched me.
“My mom said you always carried too many tools.”
“I never met your mom after that rescue.”
“She followed your local interviews.”
“I gave one interview.”
“She saved it.”
“Why?”
Maisie looked away.
“Because you went into the elevator when everyone else waited outside.”
The rack loosened.
I pulled her prosthetic free.
The foot was scratched, but intact.
“You need a hospital.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
“I can’t go.”
“Why not?”
She stared at me.
“Because they’ll call social services.”
I stopped.
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Who are you living with?”
She said nothing.
The train speaker crackled.
A conductor announced that debris had damaged the electrical system. We would remain between stations until rescue crews arrived.
Estimated delay: one hour.
Passengers groaned.
Maisie leaned back against the seat.
Her face looked exhausted.
“Where have you been sleeping?” I asked.
“At home.”
“Where?”
“Near Elm Street.”
“Apartment? House?”
She closed her eyes.
“Why do adults ask questions when they’ve already decided they won’t like the answers?”
“I haven’t decided anything.”
“Yes, you have. You’re deciding whether I’m your problem.”
The words cut deeper than they should have.
Because she was right.
Part of me was already calculating.
Hospital.
Police.
Social worker.
A phone call.
Then I could go home and return to my quiet life.
I had said yes to a seat.
I had not said yes to everything else.
The emergency door at the end of the car opened.
Two firefighters entered.
“We’re evacuating through the service tunnel.”
Maisie stiffened.
One firefighter noticed her prosthetic.
“We’ll carry you.”
“No,” she said immediately.
“It’s half a mile.”
“I can walk.”
“You’re injured.”
“I said I can walk.”
The firefighter looked at me, silently asking for help convincing her.
I almost did.
Then I remembered how quickly I had spoken for her on the platform.
I turned to Maisie.
“What do you need?”
She blinked.
“A handrail.”
“There isn’t one.”
“Then your arm.”
I offered it.
She gripped my sleeve.
We followed the passengers into the dark tunnel.
Halfway to the station, Maisie whispered, “There’s something else in my mother’s letter.”
“What letter?”
“The one she left for you.”
A deep rumble echoed behind us.
The tunnel lights flashed.
May you like
Maisie tightened her grip.
“She said your wife’s crash wasn’t an accident.”
