He hears the musical trill of wind chimes. Beyond the caboose windows it’s still dark. He sees Mackie in his cap and jacket, lantern in hand, talking quietly with Sticks at the desk. “Why’ve we stopped?” Will asks, sitting up. Sticks and Mackie both turn. “There’s a slow freight ahead of us,” Sticks says. “We’re waiting for it to be shunted so we can pass.” “Did my father get the message?” “It’ll be working its way up,” Mackie says. Hopeful, Will asks, “Is there enough time for me to make it up front?” “Could be. We were just going to wake you,” Sticks says. “Mackie’s going to walk you up to the next guard, and they’ll take you from there. You might make it all the way; worst case, you bunk in a guard cabin. I’d take you myself ”—he taps his wooden peg—“but I’m a bit slow.”
