It was late May when the foreman returned. "I've got a job for you, Percy. It's in Pennsylvania, only about 150 miles from here."

Percy was excited. He wouldn't be scrapped just yet, could you believe it?

"Now, I believe you ought to get fixed up, they want you soon."

Percy was pulled by a diesel engine, and a rude—or maybe mute—one at that. He asked it questions and it didn't respond to one! They soon left the scrapyard with another engine who, due to Percy's coupling, had to be tied with rope to his back end. Were all American engines this quiet? It filled Percy with a sense of dread. But soon enough he was at a large warehouse, too large to be called a garden shed, but really, that's what it was. Percy was set down next to the other engine, a Pacific with a Belpaire firebox and a black body.

"Hello?" asked Percy, but the other engine was silent. He quieted down after that.

The doors closed and the electric lights came on. A crew of twenty people walked in wearing blue jumpsuits. Four of them broke off to attend to Percy, the other sixteen to work on the other engine. They looked all over Percy for spots that were irreparable. Aside from the saddle tank, cab, and bunker, not much had rusted, mainly just his side rods. There was a bit of damage on his smokebox, but nothing patching wouldn't fix. They dismantled his side rods and took off his pistons, whistle, chimney, and safety valve. It was curiously numb where they had once been, almost like they were there still. A worker came around and took his tank off and his whole crew left for the night. It was night already? Percy was left in the dark, all alone.

He tried to sleep but his mind raced about what would become of him. He looked around and similar, yet much more drastic action had been taken of the Pacific, their boiler having been corroded irreparably and their smokebox coming dangerously close.

He shut his eyes, hoping that at least tomorrow would be more productive.

The next day, the workers came early, and went on their way of removing parts from him. Soon he was just a boiler on wheels, but at least he had one. The oher engine didn't fare so well, they were still left without a boiler.

A few months passed with little done; most of Percy's crew helped with the big engine's boiler replacement. One or two got in contact with an ironworks and asked for a price estimate to the parts, and the others helped out blueprinting, but mostly they were busy.

They had more work, though, because they also had to account for his lack of bell, buffers-and-chain coupling, and lack of a cowcatcher.

Percy's parts arrived sometime in late August, with a quick fitting and an anti-rust product applied, which Percy found curious because it washed off with enough water, but supposed it was better than nothing.

He was soon assembled, and looked much better. Soon, one of the workers caught on to something. "You know," he said, still not fully alright with the face on the engine, "You look a lot like that tank engine from that TV show I used to watch as a kid back in the Eighties. If only I could remember its name…"

Percy knew about the TV show, he had a role (somewhat, that is, and it certainly wasn't particularly flattering) in it.

Percy just raised his eyebrow.

"Ah well, you're done anyway."

He was. They held up a mirror to him an he saw many new, unpainted parts.

"Well, I guess this is the part where we paint you. You'll be all black 'scept your smokebox, is that alright?"

It wasn't. At least, not a white smokebox. It would be weird to have one, especially after over 100 years of not having one. So he asked for a black smokebox instead and they obliged. He came out numbered 10 and branded Petersburg Railroad.

"Hold on a second," Percy said as he puffed out of the shed for his new owner to see him, "I'm really small! How will I be of use?"

"I'll find a way," said his new President, "there will always be work until the last lump of coal at Petersburgh."