He tucks one of my golden brown curls behind my ear. To escape the gruesome images in my head, I trace the pale scar on Dominick’s middle knuckle with my pointer finger, the scar he got trying to gut a striped bass for the first time with his father. It’s like tickling someone to cure depression. But telling me not to worry is like telling me not to breathe. Like being with him should be a magical cure since he cares. Too bad you need drugs to be stuck with me. It’ll be fine.” He moves in closer and brushes my neck with his fingertips. I swallow hard and cross my arms over my chest.
“You think someone pancaked on the tracks?” “Why do you think the train stopped?” I ask. The image of tiny severed toes repeats in my brain. If we don’t get moving soon, I’m never going to make it home in time. “Except we’re stuck.” Dad wanted me home by 11:00, and my phone says it’s already 9:45. "I knew we shouldn’t have taken the train.” Other passengers mutter about the delay, and each complaint seeps into my skin and mingles with my fears. “It wore off.” I swallow before he makes me feel guilty. I fish in my purse for my anxiety meds and pop one little white savior. Little bloody hands and feet scattered on the tracks. And one survivor, the driver, left screaming on the side of the road. My mind begins to calculate and unravel in a spiral of possibilities. The train has stopped somewhere after the North Quincy station. I nod and try to act nonchalant as I glance out the dark windows at the distant headlights of highway traffic. His black rimmed glasses twist on his face, but he retrieves my purse from the floor before straightening them.“ When the Boston outbound T screeches to a stop, I lose my grip on the silver pole and slam into Dominick.
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