THE BOY CRAWLS OUT FROM BENEATH THE GONDOLA LEFT orphaned on the siding, bending low as he scurries across ballast and track to the westbound freighter with its engine snuffling and throbbing beneath the rickety water tower. It is an isolated, jerkwater stop, a single lantern hung from the spigot for the boilerman to see by, and the boy keeps to the far side of the boxcars till he finds an unlocked door, sliding it open, slow and steady, till there is space to haul himself in. The smell of candle wax. He slides the door shut and sits on the floor in absolute darkness.

He doesn’t feel like he’s alone.

Metal slamming as the couplings engage, one after another, and the train huffs into motion. A scratching noise, flickering light, and a scrawny white boy is seated on a crate with a lit candle in his hand.

“You weren’t invited,” he says.

“If the door’s not locked, it’s up for grabs.”

The white boy seems to accept this. “You nailed a rattler before.”

“Been doing it a couple weeks. Where’d you get the candle?”

The white boy shifts the flame to reveal an open crate beside him, packed with rows of glistening white tapers.

“This car is lousy with ‘em. Nothin’ to eat, though.”

He stretches the candle forward to get a better look at the newcomer. “You’re an Indian.”

“You win the cigar.”

The boxcar rocks as they take a curve, the train almost up to speed.

“What kind?”

The new arrival peers into the rest of the dim interior. “Ojibwe,” he answers. “You probably heard us called Chippewa.”

The white boy lights a trio of candles already stuck to a crate top with drip wax. The Indian boy can see now that they sit in a little clearing between dozens of crates stacked nearly to the roof.

“So the Chippewas—they still, like, hunt and fish—”

“Plenty of that, yeah.”

“Take a few scalps—”

The newcomer gives the white boy a level gaze.

“Anyhow, you people go back a long way in this country.”

“That’s what I’m told.”

The white boy grins. “My old man, he only come over twenty years ago. Stumbled off the boat and somehow dragged his carcass to Chicago.”

“I went through there a couple days ago,” says the Indian boy. “The yard I was in, there was ten, fifteen tracks laid out side by side.”

“That’s Chicago. What’s your name?”

“You mean my Indian name?”

“Yeah—”

“You couldn’t pronounce it.”

“But what’s it mean in English?”

“Walks Far—but Would Prefer to Ride.”

The white boy smiles again. “Me too. I already walked holes in both my shoes.”

There is a single blast of the whistle from up ahead. The boys listen for a moment.

“Maybe something on the track.”

“It was too dark to read on the side of the cars,” says the Indian boy. “Got any idea where we’re headed?”

The white boy shrugs. “All I know is we’re going north.”

“Good.”

The Indian boy leans back against a wall of crates, closes his eyes for a minute. He is dressed in what looks like a uniform, elbows and knees scuffed and soiled, shoes battered from hard travel.

“You run off from the Army?”

“Not exactly.”

“Cause you’re not, like, a wild Indian.”

He opens his eyes. “I used to be, up till the Sisters of Perpetual Adoration got hold of me—”

“That’s nuns—”

“A whole tribe of ‘em, hooked up with the Benedictines. They started me out on the righteous path, and then I got shipped east to the Indian school.”

“Indian school.” The white boy grins. “Where they teach you how to shoot a bow and arrow.”

“No,” says the newcomer wearily. “That’s not what they teach—”