Frank Kowalski woke at five in the morning and got up and went to the window and looked out at the tracks.
The tracks were intact. All seven of them ran straight and grey into the darkness beyond the edge of his yard, and the one that mattered most—the branch line that led to the old Jones and Laughlin plant—was solid and unbroken and waiting for him the way it had been waiting for him every morning for three years. He pulled on his work boots and his jacket and his hat and he went downstairs and he...
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