The Broken Signal

The door clicked shut. The sound was small, but it sealed the carriage. We were alone.

I sat on the bottom bunk and watched Rob pull off his boots. He was still moving, even when he was tired. That was Rob. He had been twenty-three when we made the promise at university, drunk on cheap lager and the idea of a future that looked like a map. I had been the same age, sober and already planning the exit strategy. Twenty years later, the map was real, the train was real, and so was he.

He kicked his left boot away from his right. They hit the metal wall with a dull thud.