Chapter 8

           Itwastoolatetocallupforacaboranything,soIwalkedthewholewaytothestation. Itwasn’ttoofar,butitwascoldashell,andthesnowmadeithardforwalking,andmyGladstoneskeptbanginghelloutofmylegs. Isortofenjoyedtheairandall,though. Theonlytroublewas,thecoldmademynosehurt,andrightundermyupperlip,whereoldStradlater’dlaidoneonme. He’dsmackedmyliprightonmyteeth,anditwasprettysore. Myearswereniceandwarm,though. ThathatIboughthadearlapsinit,andIputthemon—Ididn’tgiveadamnhowIlooked. Nobodywasaroundanyway. Everybodywasinthesack. 

           IwasquiteluckywhenIgottothestation,becauseIonlyhadtowaitabouttenminutesforatrain. WhileIwaited,Igotsomesnowinmyhandandwashedmyfacewithit.Istillhadquiteabitofbloodon. 

           UsuallyIlikeridingontrains,especiallyatnight,withthelightsonandthewindowssoblack,andoneofthoseguyscominguptheaislesellingcoffeeandsandwichesandmagazines. Iusuallybuyahamsandwichandaboutfourmagazines. IfI’monatrainatnight,Icanusuallyevenreadoneofthosedumbstoriesinamagazinewithoutpuking. Youknow. Oneofthosestorieswithalotofphony,lean-jawedguysnamedDavidinit,andalotofphonygirlsnamedLindaorMarciathatarealwayslightingallthegoddamDavids’pipesforthem. Icanevenreadoneofthoselousystoriesonatrainatnight,usually. Butthistime,itwasdifferent. Ijustdidn’tfeellikeit. Ijustsortofsatandnotdidanything. AllIdidwastakeoffmyhuntinghatandputitinmypocket. 

           Allofasudden,thisladygotonatTrentonandsatdownnexttome.