He knew it was a bad idea. It couldn’t be worse, really. But Fenton couldn’t help himself. This was the fourth time this week. He parked the truck at the yard and walked the wrong way. Instead of walking home to where Tammy was waiting — likely fuming, she was always fuming lately — he walked three blocks in the wrong direction, then turned north. The idea was to travel north in as straight a line as possible, no matter what got in his way. He walked between two red-brick houses, then climbed a fence, walked through a flower bed, across the lawn, splashed through an old plastic wading pool, through another flower bed, over another fence. Down the alley. He walked across the street, between the houses, through another yard, and scrambled up onto the roof of a shed and jumped to another shed in another yard. And so on. Until he was north of town on the other side of the highway, climbing over barbed-wire fences and walking through the yellow-green pastures.
North, north.
Field after field. Birds chirping. Crickets making noise. The grassy field soft and springy beneath his wet work boots. Then through the pines into the clearing before the crunch of the gravel beside the railway tracks. Fenton bent down and placed a hand on the metal rail. It was warm from the sun even though the air was a bit cool. It was smooth and quiet and still. He stepped into the middle of the tracks and sat down, cross-legged. Then he laid down flat on his back.
With one hand on each rail, he looked up at the blue sky. Bright white feathery wisps of clouds. The crickets sang and the grass made a whispery dry brushing sound. The high tops of the pines seemed to sway dark against the blue sky. He could feel it coming. The softest subtlest vibration in his fingertips. So soft, so subtle, it might not be real. Just a watery ripple in the clear late afternoon air.
He loved it. The feeling that filled him. Bliss. The weakness in his knees, the trembling of the ground, the black wings folding inward, blocking the light. He was sinking. He was fading away.
Fenton forced his eyes open but could see nothing. White light. The trembling hum loud in his ears. He forced himself up on his elbows, tucked the toe of his boot under the outside of the rail, and rolled himself over onto the gravel. He could feel the stones through his shirt, sharp against his chest. He pushed his boot against the rail and he rolled down the gravel bank, tumbling down the slope until he was lying under the pines. A bed of needles beneath him.
And he was gone, gone.
Out for the count.
By the time Fenton opened his eyes, rolled over onto his knees, and stood up, brown pine needles dropping off the back of his shirt, the train was long gone. The spectacular rush of earth-quaking car after car blurring by, the screech of metal on metal, was over. There was only a faint rumbling echo in the distance, a lonely throb in the air far, far away. He was a stiff scarecrow standing in a field. A shadow in the twilight.
His headache followed him all the way home.