3:30.
Walking.
3:45.
Blanking.
3:50.
Looking.
3:55.
There.
I didn’t even have to see the change from dirt to gravel or the green post.
Because there they were.
Photographs. Taped lightly to the rails.
3:57.
I was within a hundred feet. And then I saw it.
The train.
Coming.
I ran.
Because the train would destroy the photographs.
I ran.
The noise of the train.
The first photo.
I shouldn’t have taken the time to look. But I looked.
And then, written on the rail underneath:
I SAW
The second photo was four rails down.
I could feel the ground shaking.
The train coming.
I jumped over.
Underneath:
WHAT YOU DID
The train almost here.
The train.
The whistle.
The warning.
A screech.
The third photo.
The third.
In my fingers.
I could feel the train pushing the air.
Hear the howl.
I didn’t look. I just read underneath—
TO HER
—and jumped to the side.
Hit hard.
The train screeching by.
I rolled on the gravel. Pieces of stone in my skin.
Crushing the photos as I rolled.
Imagining the people watching from the train.
The photographer watching.
I lost my breath.
Deep breaths.
I lifted myself up.
Blinking. Breathing.
I wouldn’t have died. I wouldn’t have.
Remembering the third photograph.
Looking at it there, on the side of the tracks, as the train pushed past.
Thinking: WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU?
Aren’t there any other clues?
Hating life. You would say that all the time. I hate life. And I thought it was just something you said.
But I felt it. Down to my bones.
Linked to frustration.
I SAW
Linked to unfairness.
WHAT YOU
Linked to guilt.
DID
Linked to anger.
TO
Linked to helplessness.
HER.
Hate.
Hate.
Hate.
I dwelt within it as I walked home. I dwelt within it the whole night. The next morning.
Let it go, I imagined Jack saying. Just let it go.
And then I slipped the photos into his locker.
I wanted him to find them, too.