The tracks smell as black as they look with tar and oil, but I’ve always thought the train makes a lulling sound. Unfortunately, that chug . . . chug . . . chug is not enough to dispel my fears this evening. Besides all the other worries that I got on my mind, these woods that I love to stroll through during the day turn into something straight out of a horror movie once the sun sets. Animals eat each other down to the bone and bats come flying at you. I saw a wolf once, at least I think it was a wolf, E. J. told me it wasn’t. Another night, I heard footsteps behind me and when I turned a man stepped out of the shadows. I could see by his appearance that he was a hobo. His barn door was unzipped and he was lost and in tears. After I gave him directions on how to follow the railroad tracks to the water tower so he could be with his own kind, he hugged me, and I let him, because I hadn’t been hugged in so long. When I told Curry Weaver about that encounter, even though he is a “man of the rails”
