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stating that she would either pay to come back or she would never leave, not on this train. The quandary was solved only when he commented that once she paid for the round-trip ticket no one could prevent her from missing the return leg.
    â€œSo, nobody will stop me from not getting back on the train?” she wanted verified.
    â€œThe railroad has no hounds,” he told her. “We won’t hunt you down.”
    So she bought a round-trip ticket with no intention of using the return leg.
    A brochure informed her that the town at the end of the line was charming, quaint, and small enough that she could walk to everything. Perfect.
    â€œEnjoy the trip,” chirped the man at the ticket counter.
    â€œOnly the first half,” she told him, and boarded.
    As the train approached Wakefield it slowed, not that the relic was ever swift, but half speed became one-fifth, and as it entered the town’s limits where the narrow-gauge tracks were planted hard against the main drag, with virtually no separation, men, women, and even children on foot were strolling faster than the train in its deliberate crawl. She could climb out and push and arrive at their destination sooner and assumed that this was supposed to be charming, too. A lawyer’s frenetic pace still resided in her bloodstream. Perhaps she had that to subdue. In places there seemed to be no gap between the tracks and road and in other sections between the tracks and a walking path. Under the passenger car window, patrons having an early lunch on a restaurant’s rear patio were so close she could count the chicken wings four down, four to go on their plates and study an emblem on the flatware. I know zip about heraldry. This was unlike any town she’d visited. Where else did cars, pedestrians, and diners jostle for space with steam locomotives?
    Perfect.
    A weekday, a goodly portion of those onboard were either retirees or railroad aficionados on a mini-holiday, and none of the latter and few of the former were in a rush to disembark as they pulled into the station. They loved sitting on the train in the station. Only slowly did they stow scant belongings into light backpacks, retrieve cameras and binoculars. Tara Cogshill carried a purse and a small backpack that contained the sum total of her earthly possessions—she’d sold her stuff and her furniture, dropping a good deal of her clothing off at a Goodwill. If she was truly leaving she wasn’t going to bring her belongings with her. She’d left the bed of her little red pickup bare, guessing that sooner or later the truck would break down. When it did, she was unencumbered, a garage taking the truck for parts, and she had next to nothing to carry off it. The only item beyond bare necessities that she could not do without was her cell phone, although she’d been tempted, during the train ride, to toss it in the river. One final act of separation, but she resisted. This was a new beginning, a fresh start, and she was well satisfied to be first off the train.
    Tara declined the conductor’s hand to guide her onto a step. Hands off. A beauty, and due to her striking looks she was accustomed to the attentions of men, including those who would find any excuse to graze her skin. She hesitated on the train’s lower rung and allowed her eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. The delay was not meant to put herself on display. The opposite, she wanted to take in the moment, for this step off the train marked the conclusion of her old life, and a fresh start.
    She stepped down onto the platform. Feeling famished.
    Soon enough, resigned to it, tourists disembarked as a swarm, ready to commence a bee-like buzz about town. Tara looked around awhile, just observing, deciding on a direction, then adjusted her backpack—thinking that perhaps she’d brought along more than she needed—resisted the bakery across the street, and started walking.
    So, town. Her lips moved