Sharp, heady smoke fills his lungs as he sits at the train station, strumming the guitar. Waiting. The train’s horn bellows, its shrill sound piercing and drowning out his melodies. Waves of toxic exhaust billow out of the smokestack, coals warming the belly of such a magnificent beast.

“You do requests?” A shadow crests over him, shielding the Preacher Boy from the warmth of the sun. Sammie glances up. Offers a shy, familial smile.

“Not really,” he admits. “‘Less you gotta good ear, ma’am. Gotta feel a song in order to play it.”