The entrance to the yard was on a wide street lined with warehouses. As Emmett approached, the only person in sight was a middle-aged man in a wheelchair positioned near the gates. Even from a distance, Emmett could see that both of his legs had been cut off above the knee—a casualty of the war, no doubt. If the veteran’s intention was to profit from the kindness of strangers, thought Emmett, he would have been better off in front of the passenger terminal.
In order to assess the situation, Emmett took up a position across the street from the gates, in the doorway of a shuttered building. Not far behind the fencing he could see a two-story brick building in relatively good repair. That’s where the command center would be—the room with the manifests and timetables. Naively, Emmett had imagined that he would be able to slip into the building sight unseen and cull the information he needed from a schedule posted on a wall. But just beyond the gates was a small building that looked very much like a guardhouse.
Sure enough, as Emmett was studying it, a truck pulled into the entrance and a man in uniform emerged from the house with a clipboard in order to clear the truck for admission. There wasn’t going to be any slipping or culling, thought Emmett. He would have to wait for the information to come to him.
Emmett glanced at the dial of the army surplus watch, which Billy had loaned him. It was quarter past eleven. Figuring he would get his chance when the lunch hour came, Emmett leaned back in the shadows of the doorway and bided his time, his thoughts returning to his brother.
* * *
? ? ?
When Emmett and Billy had entered the passenger terminal, Billy was all eyes, taking in the high ceilings and ticket windows, the coffee shop and shoe shine and newsstand.
—I’ve never been in a train station before, he said.
—Is it different than you expected?
—It’s just as I expected.
—Come on, said Emmett with a smile. Let’s sit over here.
Emmett led his brother through the main waiting area to a quiet corner with an empty bench.
Removing his backpack, Billy sat down and slid over to make room for Emmett, but Emmett didn’t sit.
—I need to go find out about the trains to New York, Billy. But it might take a little while. Until I get back, I want you to promise you’ll stay put.
—Okay, Emmett.
—And keep in mind, this isn’t Morgen. There’s going to be plenty of people coming and going, all of them strangers. It’s probably for the best if you keep to yourself.
—I understand.
—Good.
—But if you want to find out about the trains to New York, why don’t you ask at the information window? It’s right there under the clock.
When Billy pointed, Emmett looked back toward the information window, then he joined his brother on the bench.
—Billy, we’re not going to be taking one of the passenger trains.
—Why not, Emmett?
—Because all of our money is in the Studebaker.
Billy thought about this, then reached for his backpack.
—We can use my silver dollars.
With a smile, Emmett stayed his brother’s hand.
—We can’t do that. You’ve been collecting those for years. And you only have a few more to go, right?
—Then what are we going to do, Emmett?
—We’re going to hitch a ride on one of the freight trains.
For most people, Emmett figured, rules were a necessary evil. They were an inconvenience to be abided for having the privilege of living in an orderly world. And that’s why most people, when left to their own devices, were willing to stretch the boundaries of a rule. To speed on an empty road or liberate an apple from an untended orchard. But when it came to rules, Billy wasn’t simply an abider. He was a stickler. He made his bed and brushed his teeth without needing to be asked. He insisted that he be at school fifteen minutes before the first bell, and he always raised his hand in class before speaking. As a result, Emmett had thought a lot about how he was going to put this, eventually settling on the phrase hitch a ride in the hope it might diminish any qualms his brother was sure to have. From Billy’s expression, Emmett could see that he had chosen well.
—Like stowaways, Billy said, a little wide-eyed.
—That’s right. Like stowaways.
Patting his brother on the knee, Emmett rose from the bench and turned to go.
—Like Duchess and Woolly in the warden’s car.
Emmett paused and turned back.
—How do you know about that, Billy?
—Duchess told me. Yesterday after breakfast. We were talking about The Count of Monte Cristo and how Edmond Dantès, imprisoned unjustly, escaped from the Chateau d’If by stitching himself into the sack that was meant for the body of Abbé Faria, so that the unwitting guards would carry him out of the prison gates. Duchess explained how he and Woolly had done almost the exact same thing. How, unjustly imprisoned, they had hidden in the trunk of the warden’s car and the warden had unwittingly driven them right through the gates. Only Duchess and Woolly weren’t tossed in the sea.