The night is always so different from the day. All the dust is blown away by the breeze and the scent of newly cut grass wafts through the cool air. No cars zoom by. No people yell at each other from open windows. All is calm, quiet, and peaceful. As much as she wants to just stop for a moment and smell the neighbours' roses, Clarisse keeps walking, forced forward by the silence.
That is the unnerving part: the silence. When you are alone on an empty street at night and up to no good, at that, you constantly feels as if someone is following you, watching your every move. She finds herself looking over her shoulder every few seconds, watching the shadows on the pavement. Even the slightest scraping of gravel behind her sends her heart pounding.
Fortunately, the train station is not far away. Clutching her bag, Clarisse waits for the last train at the platform. The long minutes tick by, one by one, until the train arrives, huffing and puffing as if after a sprint. No one gets out. Clarisse boards the train.
Except for the conductor, she is the only one in the wagon. Seating herself in the corner, Clarisse gazes out the window. As the train picks up speed, everything becomes an indistinguishable blur. Clarisse tries to pick out shapes in the darkness to keep herself from thinking about what she will do after.
"Riverfield Station... Union Station... Cherrytree Station... Oakhill Station... Crowe Station..." the robotic voice announces as the train comes to a stop one, two, three, four, five times. Still, no one gets in, but the voice continues to list the stops, its tone never changing.
Slowly, the buildings outside become smaller, more and more sporadic, until all that they pass by is trees.
That's when the conductor speaks up.
"Excuse me, miss," he calls, turning towards her, but not quite meeting her eyes. Clarisse almost jumps out of her seat. Unaware of her reaction, he talks on, "where are you going so far from home at such an ungodly hour?"
Oh heavens, Clarisse racks her mind for the most sensible answer, I wasn't prepared for this! What if he'll search me? All will be gone!
"You see, sir, we went for a ride around the countryside the other day," she bluffs, hoping he will believe her, "and I accidentally dropped my mother's favourite gold bracelet out of the window. I'm going back to find it."
"Fair enough," the conductor replies and turns back to stare emptily at the wall, the seashell radio bumbling ever so softly in his ear with its tales of romance and celebration and pleasure.
Only then Clarisse realizes how much the dark-haired, bronze-skinned man looks like her fireman friend, Guy Montag.
Guy Montag. The name burns through her mind without him there to douse it. Guy Montag. He isn't coming with her, not now, not ever. What will become of him, the unusual man who listened to her stories and looked her right in the eyes? How many more books will he burn wrongfully, reluctantly, compulsively? A tear streams down her alabaster cheek and she hastens to wipe it off.
I can only hope that he lives a happy life.