The freight train cut through like a slow iron serpent, its wheels shrieking softly against the rails as it carved a path through endless fields and sleeping towns. Somewhere near the middle of the train, perched inside a weathered boxcar, sat a lone figure who had long ago stopped belonging to any place on a map.

Simon kept his weight balanced automatically as the train lurched over uneven track, gloved fingers resting against the metal frame beside him. The air smelled like oil, wet iron, and distant pine. Good signs. That meant they were cutting through forest country now, somewhere north of wherever the last yard had been. He never checked station signs anymore. He didn't need them. The land told him everything. The direction of the wind, the tilt of the hills, the pattern of stars above the moving clouds—those were better than any map. He knew how long the train had been climbing by the strain of the engine. He knew there would be a river soon because the air had grown cooler and damp. Somewhere ahead the tracks would bend west.

People tried talking to him sometimes. A hitchhiker sharing a railcar. A yard worker spotting him too late. A drifter looking for company.

But Simon never answered. It was easier that way.

Simon shifted slightly, adjusting the worn pack at his side. Everything he owned fit inside it. A knife. A compass he barely needed. A few wrapped supplies. A folded map full of markings no one else would understand. He'd been moving like this since he was a teenager.