The back wall of the car flashed bright and honey colored, rippling with the shadows of trees they passed. Sheltered in train noise, Phin stretched, peed down a crack behind the crates, ate an apple, all in spacious golden daylight. There were two stops that morning. Both times Plume got out, once Fraser and the horse did, but Phin never saw another chance to escape unseen. At the third stop the searchers hauled someone to Plume near the car, someone who spoke quick and stammering in a language Phin had never heard. “Does that look like a boy?” Plume hit the man—at least, somebody hit somebody. Phin heard the smack and a grunt from Fraser, who must be watching out the open door. A few minutes later Plume got back in and a cork popped. After this they traveled a long time without stopping. The car heated. Dark drips appeared on the ceiling. Phin touched one, and his fingers came away sticky with tar. He heard the sound of splashing a couple of times—Fraser putting water on the horse to cool him.
