Many thanks to neuroparenthetical, who edited this story.

“I’m looking for a DeWitt,” the man in the overcoat says to a uniformed station attendant, reading the name from a slip. “I think he’s a conductor.”

The middle-aged woman barely looks up. “Eastern Line. Due in at three. Platform 7A.”

“Is there any way I can catch that train?”

She pauses, then glances at him. “The one coming into the station?”

“Yes.”

She gives him a measuring look. “You must be in a hurry. Take the eleven o’clock from platform 5B, ride it three stops, and you’ll meet DeWitt’s train on the return.”

The man moves through the train, passing from car to car. The benches are worn and dirty; the windows stained, their lower halves masked by graffiti sprayed on the outside.

Beyond the glass, the landscape offers little relief — leafless trees, waterlogged soil, dead leaves pressed into mud, patches of frozen snow. Barbed-wire fences run alongside the tracks. Through the mist come lonely farmhouses, water towers, and the road, where yellow headlights pierce the fog. Every so often the road branches toward the railway, and a line of cars waits for the train to pass.

He stops in a quieter car and takes a seat. Despite the clanking heaters, the air is cold, and he pulls his cashmere-lined coat tighter around him. He checks the time and waits.

A conductor moves down the aisle, checking the tickets of the passengers who boarded at the last stop.

The small trash can mounted low on the wall between the benches hangs open. He reaches down and pushes the lid closed. It swings back. He presses harder this time, holding it in place a moment longer before letting go. The lid drops again with a dull knock. He tries once more, adjusting the angle, then stops. For a second he stands there with his hand still on the rim. He withdraws it and wipes his palm against his coat.

He checks the time: a quarter of an hour to the change station.

He walks to the end of the car and waits by the exit. The restroom is just behind him; a sink and a narrow mirror are mounted on the outside wall. He leans in, inspecting the line of his morning shave, tilting his head to catch the light. He rubs a thumb along his jaw, then smooths his hair back, pauses, and adjusts it again.

On the platform he watches the train pull away. Only after it has thinned into the mist does he turn to take in the station. It’s small, a commuter stop — just two tracks, one for each direction.

He draws in the sharp, cold air. He watches for the returning train, due any time now.

Its headlights are the first to pierce the haze; then the locomotive emerges.

Inside, the car is no better than the last one. The benches are stained, the floor tacky underfoot. The smell is worse — human waste, soiled fabric, old sweat. There’s something rancid underneath it all, faint but persistent: the unmistakable odor of a cheap commuter train.

He takes a seat by the aisle and waits.

It isn’t long before the conductor enters the car from the far end. He is a thin man, neither tall nor short, with an oval face and fair hair. He wears a navy-blue uniform; the jacket hangs loosely on him, and his cap has lost its shape.

The man watches him approach. His eyes follow the conductor as he stops at each row, asking for tickets, examining passes and documents. He lingers when someone doesn’t have one — selling a ticket, taking payment, counting out change when it’s cash, marking something in a small notebook.

When the conductor reaches him, it’s no different. The man doesn’t have a ticket. He asks for one. The conductor cuts it, takes the money, and moves on without another word.

He watches him slowly moving on, from one passenger to the next. Only when the conductor moves hurriedly in the opposite direction does he call after him. “Sir? Sir.”

The conductor stops and turns back.

“I’d like a word.”

The conductor hesitates, then nods.

“Sit,” the man says.

The conductor doesn’t move.

“Please.” He waits.

After a moment, the conductor sits on the opposite bench, facing him.

“It’s been a long time,” the man says.

The conductor looks at him, but says nothing.

“You don’t recognize me?” the man asks. “I suppose I’ve changed.”

“I know who you are.”

“It’s been a long while. You’ve changed. I barely recognized you.”

“Yes,” the conductor says, rising to his feet. “Would that be all?”

“Wait. I came for you.”

“Did you?” The conductor’s voice is flat. “Why would you do that?”

“We didn’t part on bad terms.”

The conductor pauses. “You’re right. A long time has passed since we last met.” He shakes his head once. “I’m not the same person. You shouldn’t have come. I don’t know what you were thinking.”

“Yes,” the man says. “Yes, you’re right. Of course. I can see you’re somebody els — but can we meet after you finish your day?”

“What good would that do?”

“Maybe none. But I looked for you for a long time, and I came a long way. I couldn’t just leave.”

The conductor tips his cap in a brief acknowledgement and turns away. The man slumps back in his seat.

When the train reaches its destination, he steps off onto the platform. He pauses and looks around. It’s busy. People move past in both directions. Down the platform, two cars away, the conductor stands talking with other staff.

The man paces until the group breaks apart, then crosses the platform and intercepts him.

“DeWitt?” he calls.

The conductor turns. After a moment, he smiles.

“You know,” the man says, “your smile is the same as ever. It can turn the gloomiest day into a jolly one.”

DeWitt laughs. “Cut the crap, mister. Tell me — what do you see when you look at me?”

“I see a middle-aged man,” the man says. “Thin lips. Fine lines at the corners of the eyes. A few hairs on the chin and upper lip, kept close by the razor on an otherwise beardless face.” He pauses. “I see weariness. I see a man who hasn’t given up yet, but who’s tired.”

“Don’t stop.”

The man exhales. “I’ve seen recent pictures of you. I can tell they weren’t doing you any favors.”

DeWitt laughs again. “You might be reading too much into it, Egan. I’m not done yet.” He glances at his watch. “I need to finish my shift. I can meet you outside the station in — “ he checks the time again, “half an hour.”

The two men walk through an older, run-down part of town, along streets scarred by potholes and uneven repair patches. The buildings rise three stories — four at most — painted in faded pastels. Their plaster is cracked and stained, flaking away in places to expose brick beneath. Small plants push up from seams in the sidewalk.

They enter a yellow building. The stairwell is wide and poorly lit, smelling of damp cement and dust. They climb the turning stairs, one flight after another, their hands brushing the cold wrought-iron railing.

DeWitt’s apartment is a single room, painted a dark, tired yellow. Long cracks run down the plastered walls. The lone window opens onto a narrow lightwell.

“This is where I live,” DeWitt says, closing the door behind them. “Make yourself at home.”

Egan surveys the room. A large bed takes up one side, a couch another. A small kitchen area is set off by a half wall. Cupboards, a table with mismatched chairs, wall-mounted shelves and mirrors crowd the space. A closed door leads to the bathroom, he assumes.