siblings and whether they liked them. Hell, I even remember
the ones who had to drop out after the Crash: Henry Winchester, whose father stepped off the ledge of the Board of Trade Building in Chicago. Alistair Barnes, whose father shot himself in the head. Reginald Monty, who tried unsuccessfully to live in a car when his family could no longer pay for his room and board. Bucky Hayes, whose unemployed father simply wandered off. But these ones, the ones who
remain? Nothing.
I stare at these faces without features—these blank ovals with hair—looking from one to the next with increasing desperation. I'm aware of a heavy, wet noise, and realize it's me.
I'm gasping for breath.
W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts "Jacob?"
The face nearest me has a mouth and it's moving. The voice is timid, unsure. "Are you okay?"
I blink, unable to focus. A second later I cross the room and toss the exam booklet on the proctor's desk.
"Finished already?" he says, reaching for it. I hear paper rustling as I head for the door. "Wait!" he calls after me. "You haven't even started! You can't leave. If you leave I can't let you—"
The door cuts offhis final words. As I march across the quad, I look up at Dean Wilkins'
office. He's standing at the window, watching.
I WALK UNTIL the edge of town and then veer off to follow the train tracks. I walk until after dark and the moon is high, and then for several hours after.
I walk until my legs hurt and my feet blister. And then I stop because I am tired and hungry and have no idea where I am. It's as though I've been sleepwalking and suddenly woken to find myself here. The only sign of civilization is the track, which rests on a raised bed of gravel. There is forest on one side and a small clearing on the other. From somewhere nearby I hear water trickling, and I pick my way toward it, guided by the moonlight.
The stream is a couple of feet wide at most. It runs along the tree line at the far side of the clearing and then cuts off into the woods. I peel off my shoes and socks and sit at its edge.
When I first submerge my feet in the frigid water, they hurt so badly I yank them out again. I persist, dunking them for longer and longer periods, until the cold finally numbs my blisters. I rest my soles against the
rocky bottom and let the water wriggle between my toes. Eventually the cold causes its own ache, and I lie back on the bank, resting my head on a flat stone while my feet dry.
A coyote howls in the distance, a sound both lonely and familiar, and I sigh, allowing my eyes to close. When it is answered by a yipping only a few dozen yards to my left, I sit forward abruptly.
The faraway coyote howls again and this time is answered by a train Sara Gruen whistle. I pull on my socks and shoes and rise, staring at the edge of the clearing.
The train is closer now, rattling and thumping toward me: CHUNK-achunka-chunk-a-chunk-a, CHUNK-a-chunk-a-chunk-a-chunk-a, CHUNKachunk-a-chunk-a-chunk-a...
I wipe my hands on my thighs and walk toward the track, stopping a few yards short. The acrid stink of oil fills my nose. The whistle shrieks again
TWE-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E
A massive engine explodes around the bend and barrels past, so huge and so close I'm hit by a wall of wind. It churns out rolling clouds of billowing smoke, a fat black rope that coils over the cars behind it. The sight, the sound, the stink are too much. I watch, stunned, as half a dozen flat cars whoosh by, loaded with what look like wagons, although I can't quite make them out because the moon has gone behind a cloud.
I snap out of my stupor. There are people on that train. It matters not a whit where it's going because wherever it is, it's away from coyotes and toward civilization, food, possible employment—maybe even a ticket back to Ithaca, although I haven't a cent to my name and no reason to think they'd take me back. And what if they will? There is no home to return to, no practice to join.
More flat cars pass, loaded
the ones who had to drop out after the Crash: Henry Winchester, whose father stepped off the ledge of the Board of Trade Building in Chicago. Alistair Barnes, whose father shot himself in the head. Reginald Monty, who tried unsuccessfully to live in a car when his family could no longer pay for his room and board. Bucky Hayes, whose unemployed father simply wandered off. But these ones, the ones who
remain? Nothing.
I stare at these faces without features—these blank ovals with hair—looking from one to the next with increasing desperation. I'm aware of a heavy, wet noise, and realize it's me.
I'm gasping for breath.
W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts "Jacob?"
The face nearest me has a mouth and it's moving. The voice is timid, unsure. "Are you okay?"
I blink, unable to focus. A second later I cross the room and toss the exam booklet on the proctor's desk.
"Finished already?" he says, reaching for it. I hear paper rustling as I head for the door. "Wait!" he calls after me. "You haven't even started! You can't leave. If you leave I can't let you—"
The door cuts offhis final words. As I march across the quad, I look up at Dean Wilkins'
office. He's standing at the window, watching.
I WALK UNTIL the edge of town and then veer off to follow the train tracks. I walk until after dark and the moon is high, and then for several hours after.
I walk until my legs hurt and my feet blister. And then I stop because I am tired and hungry and have no idea where I am. It's as though I've been sleepwalking and suddenly woken to find myself here. The only sign of civilization is the track, which rests on a raised bed of gravel. There is forest on one side and a small clearing on the other. From somewhere nearby I hear water trickling, and I pick my way toward it, guided by the moonlight.
The stream is a couple of feet wide at most. It runs along the tree line at the far side of the clearing and then cuts off into the woods. I peel off my shoes and socks and sit at its edge.
When I first submerge my feet in the frigid water, they hurt so badly I yank them out again. I persist, dunking them for longer and longer periods, until the cold finally numbs my blisters. I rest my soles against the
rocky bottom and let the water wriggle between my toes. Eventually the cold causes its own ache, and I lie back on the bank, resting my head on a flat stone while my feet dry.
A coyote howls in the distance, a sound both lonely and familiar, and I sigh, allowing my eyes to close. When it is answered by a yipping only a few dozen yards to my left, I sit forward abruptly.
The faraway coyote howls again and this time is answered by a train Sara Gruen whistle. I pull on my socks and shoes and rise, staring at the edge of the clearing.
The train is closer now, rattling and thumping toward me: CHUNK-achunka-chunk-a-chunk-a, CHUNK-a-chunk-a-chunk-a-chunk-a, CHUNKachunk-a-chunk-a-chunk-a...
I wipe my hands on my thighs and walk toward the track, stopping a few yards short. The acrid stink of oil fills my nose. The whistle shrieks again
TWE-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E
A massive engine explodes around the bend and barrels past, so huge and so close I'm hit by a wall of wind. It churns out rolling clouds of billowing smoke, a fat black rope that coils over the cars behind it. The sight, the sound, the stink are too much. I watch, stunned, as half a dozen flat cars whoosh by, loaded with what look like wagons, although I can't quite make them out because the moon has gone behind a cloud.
I snap out of my stupor. There are people on that train. It matters not a whit where it's going because wherever it is, it's away from coyotes and toward civilization, food, possible employment—maybe even a ticket back to Ithaca, although I haven't a cent to my name and no reason to think they'd take me back. And what if they will? There is no home to return to, no practice to join.
More flat cars pass, loaded
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