Seventeen

The train gave a loud heave and came to a stop with such force that I was tossed out of bed. Mrs. Berns fell on top of me with a woof.

“See?” she said groggily, stretching. “You sleep in the bottom bunk and stuff falls on you when we crash.”

She’d knocked the wind out of me, so I couldn’t respond. When my breath returned, still wheezing, I squirmed out from under her and helped her to her feet. I made sure she was okay before I pulled aside the curtains. We were at a dead stop. It was early morning, the sun rising in a canvas of tangerines and lavenders. The geography was similar to North Dakota but with less evidence of recent precipitation—endless prairies covered in a fur of brown grass and patches of crusty-looking snow. The train coughed to life and lurched forward again, tossing me back into Mrs. Berns. It made a chugging, unhealthy sound, coasting slowly for a few more minutes before pulling into a station.

The brick building was similar to the one in Detroit Lakes, except for Glendive spelled out on its front in blue letters on white tile.

“Montana,” Mrs. Berns said from beside me. “Wonder why the crappy first stop before the station?”

“I wonder why the scream. Did you hear it? It came right before the train stopped.”

“Scream?”

Had I been imagining scary stuff again? I thought about peeking into the hall to find out if anybody else had heard anything. Ms. Wrenshall saved me the trouble. She yanked open our door, her face a clown mask of terror.

“Did you hear?” Her voice was a rasp of its former self. “There’s been a murder.”