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She is on a train and it is the middle of the night.
Six stops have been made so far. With each one, the room shrinks. The Rexine leather tears more from the coming and going of passengers, the carpet fades, the walls become thinner, colder.
But she goes nowhere. And neither does he.
"Eat. It's been hours. And it'll be several more before we get to where we're going."
Her appetite packed its bags days ago, booked a first class flight to Raleigh or Daytona. Her insides felt raw, corroded, heavier than wet sand bags. She wondered if she could even swallow the weight of water.
He pushes a flimsy bag of salted cashews her way. Her lip trembles.
"I-"
"Eat."
Her hands can't stay still long enough for her to get a grip on the paper, the jagged corners cutting her before the bag is torn. She pretends not to feel the way the salt creeps into the slit of her fresh wound, how it burrows a fiery nest there. A few cashews spill onto the floor and she stops moving.
He says nothing.
She continues.
The nutty crust softens on her tongue, breaks apart in a single chew. She doesn't breathe through her nose. Instead, she looks out the window; how her reflection shows more of herself than she's seen in days. The side of her neck harbors a smudge of dirt, a boot stain, the patterned lines smeared, indefinitely branded. Her roots are glossed over with days worth of oil, the underlying hairs so matted and unruly that it would take hours of laborious combing and globs of conditioner to satisfy. Red scabs form beneath her nose, dry flakes from the biting winds that sting when her snot dribbles down. Her eyes are as empty as the smudge of black sky behind the glass.
She wants to go home.
"You aren't done."
She had funneled all of the cashews into her mouth at once, even swallowed some whole in an attempt to get it over with. The longer she spent chewing, the more nauseous she felt.
Now, he was pointing to the floor.
"You dropped a few."
She gets on her hands and knees. Gathers the cashews with fingers so shaky, she drops them three times before closing her fist. He watches her. He sees the string of hair that has coiled itself around a few of the cashews, the hazy coat of dust and dirt.
"Eat it." He says. And she does. She even swallows the hair, feeling it's uncomfortable tickle down her throat. She coughs until her eyes water. Her mouth moistens from the bile that burns her but she swallows it down. If she were to puke, he would probably make her eat that, too.
"Good."
The conductor calls out for the next stop. Port Orchard. He puts his fingers to his lips, "remember what I told you," he says.
