Waiting For the Nine

Sam sat quietly waiting for the train; it always came at nine on the dot. At qurater-past, he looked down the empty track and thought up scenarios to explain its tardiness and ease his growing anxiety.

It hadn't rained in seven weeks, during the late-summer storm season, so many locals had begun ordering loads of nonpotable water tanks to keep their crops alive. Sam imagined a great sloshing truck, struck mid-tank and spouting screeching down the track as sparks spun from the squealing brakes of a passenger locomotive.

A vocal bird in a nearby tree sustained a hissing squawk, seeming to agree that this fantasy scenario could happen as they both perched on wood and spied on the world around them. A second, more metallic hiss awakened Sam from his musings, and he scanned the tracks more consciously.

But on the track farthest from him, a small hand-pumped cart shimmered from the horizon, growing larger and less impressive as it neared the platform. As it drew parallel to Sam, the operator wiped his brow and yelled out, "this train don't run no more, old man!"

Sam smirked dismissively, yet he suddenly considered the possibility that he'd sat here longer than he thought. Looking at his hands, he noticed spots and lines he didn't recognize. Had he gone mad? That seemed unlikely. Had time sped up? Yesterday felt a hundred years ago, and his childhood felt like yesterday. Did he say 'old man?'

A young woman approached and looked at him, smiling with relief. "Grandpa, you don't take the train anymore. You don't work. And the train service ended after the drought of 2023." Sam's eyes widened, and a wave of patchwork memories flooded his mind. Sam took one last look down the tracks then grasped the hand the young woman offered.