Chapter 3

As the months passed, our routine with the stations became more established. Each new station would be mapped, and we'd try to figure out if there was a way to connect back to a previous one. It took considerable effort, but we discovered that the trains' routes could shift depending on which carriage we chose. The first two trains typically took north routes where the back two took south routes. We managed to piece together some semblance of a system, but there were so many stations, and we couldn't keep moving all the time.

We encountered injuries and sickness along the way. Some days, it was simply easier to stay in a station and avoid whatever horrors awaited us next. The constant travel took its toll, leaving us feeling defeated and weary.

Lila often spoke about her children, my nieces and nephew. She'd share stories of their antics and the joy they brought her. It was comforting to hear, even though I didn't have many stories to share in return. My childhood with my siblings was largely absent from my memories. I did tell her about the time Ben tried to use his tentacle powers to flip pancake pans, only to end up with one stuck in the roof, but those stories felt distant and fragmented. I missed so much of that time.

Even now, with everything we faced, I realized I didn't have a family of my own to discuss. In the six years I was powerless, I hadn't pursued relationships or family. My focus was on my work, and that became my world. It's not that I didn't have an interest in having a family, but rather that I had buried myself in my responsibilities, letting the opportunity slip away. In the silence of the station, when Lila was sleeping, these thoughts would often surface. They were a reminder of what was lost and what was still missing, but also a reminder of the connections I still had—however strained or distant they might be I needed to get back to my siblings.

The next year was much harder. The initial optimism and the occasional lighter stories gave way to a more relentless grind. Our conversations became fewer and less cheerful; we were driven more by necessity than any real sense of purpose. Our focus was on finding water and food, and the daily struggle to survive overshadowed everything else.

We discovered a few stations where the world we emerged into were overrun with trees and plants, creating an environment where animals were plentiful. We became adept at setting snares and traps, catching what we could and dragging our catches from station to station. When we found ourselves in areas that had nothing to offer on the surface, we had to rely on less desirable options like rats to sustain us. Cleaning ourselves took something of a back seat. If we found water we had to be careful to bathe in it. A few stomach bugs were caught from water we probably shouldn't have spent time in. Every now and then we found things like razors and something to somewhat groom ourselves with.

The conversation dwindled during this period. The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable, though; it was more of a mutual understanding that we were both too exhausted to talk. It was a quiet acceptance of our shared struggle, a comfort in knowing we didn't have to force conversation to fill the void. The silence was a space where we could be tired together, without needing to explain ourselves.

It was a far cry from the isolation I'd known before. Having someone to share the space with, and to offer even a small measure of comfort was a significant shift from those earlier, solitary years.

Given our history, it was almost inconceivable that we would become this tolerant of each other. Just a short while ago, we were enemies with conflicting agendas, each of us driven by our own desperate goals. We had spent so much time trying to outmanoeuvre each other, and now, here we were, finding solace in our shared struggle.

It was ironic how the relentless pressure of survival and the need for companionship had transformed our animosity into a bond. What once seemed like an insurmountable divide had become a bridge between us, built on the common ground of our harsh experiences and mutual reliance.

Another year passed, and our relationship deepened, shifting in ways I hadn't anticipated. We started taking more care of each other, navigating the changing dynamics of our strange companionship. Lila, who once would have pushed me away, now let me hold her when she cried. No matter how many times I tried to explain how time worked differently outside these stations, it never brought her the comfort she sought. The rational part of her knew she wasn't technically missing anything with her children, but the emotional weight of the separation still bore down on her.

Eventually, Lila grew tired of my half-hearted attempts to manage my beard. The uneven patches and scruffy look were getting ridiculous, and when she offered to take over, I didn't object. Neither of us were particularly skilled with the razors or scissors we had, and the lack of running water didn't help our situation. Our hair, left to its own devices, had reached that point where it was more or less self-cleaning, which only added to our dishevelled appearance. We were miles from home and looked the part—two scruffy wanderers, worn down by the endless grind of survival.

We indulged in a few luxuries—like a book when we found one, or that beat-up chessboard we lugged around in our pack. We used whatever we could find as makeshift pieces. Dad made us play every Sunday evening. Most of the others hated it, but I didn't mind. I wasn't half bad. Pogo was the only one who gave me a real challenge, when he had the time. Lila wasn't awful, but she rarely won without trying to cheat. I didn't mind—I didn't want to win all the time. I'd pretend not to notice her sly moves, hiding a small smile behind my hand.

The floor didn't get any softer, but we got used to each other. We shared newspapers and piled them up as makeshift bedding. Some tattered blankets we found along the way. We couldn't take anything resembling a mattress with us, and thank goodness only my mind was 72—if my body was, I'd never have been able to get off the floor. Some nights were harder than others, and when the silence grew too heavy, an arm would slip around the other, offering the only comfort we had left. We were a long way from home, but in those moments, it felt like maybe we'd found something else. As the sixth year rolled around and finally ended, I'd had enough.

The map was nearly complete, but there were still some areas we couldn't reach. No doubt, our original station was one of them. The frustration and exhaustion had settled deep within me. I'd done this before—wandered aimlessly through a wasteland with no guarantee of getting out. This time, the weight of it all felt heavier. The darkness I'd battled before started to creep back in. I began questioning the point of it all, wondering if maybe I should just give up. Not that I could. I couldn't leave Lila here alone. But if she were to go—if one day, one of these illnesses we catch or an infected wound became too much to handle—then maybe I'd finally allow myself to rest, permanently.

Lila crouched over a makeshift fire, carefully turning a rat on a skewer above the flames. It sizzled in the tin container we'd scavenged.

"Care to guess how long we've been down here?" I asked, breaking the silence between us.

Lila didn't look up from her task. "Long enough to find my first gray hair, and it's not on top of my head."

I couldn't help but smirk, despite the weight on my chest. "Well, according to my calendar, it's been six years, five months, and two days."

She glanced at me. "Yeah, well, we'll find a way home soon enough, right?"

"If we don't get stabbed, shot, or blown up the next time we go topside," I replied dryly, the edge of sarcasm sharp in my voice. "In some of those timelines, we would have been lucky to get out alive."

"Yeah, well, we're still kicking, so we must be doing something right," she said, trying to maintain that fragile optimism. Normally, I'd appreciate her attempt to lift the mood, but today it just grated on me, reminding me how worn down we both were.

The fire crackled between us, and I watched as Lila carefully turned the rat, making sure it cooked evenly. The sight should have been revolting, but after so many years, it was just part of our reality. Still, my mind wandered back to one of the few good memories we had, something that had been gnawing at me for a while.

"Do you remember that timeline we found a while back, at the greenhouse?" I asked, my voice casual, though my heart beat a little faster.

"The one with the strawberries? What about it?" she asked, her curiosity piqued, but she didn't stop tending to the rat.

"It seemed pleasant enough," I continued, carefully choosing my words. "No feral hogs, no secret police. I was thinking we could maybe set up there for a stretch."

Lila paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked up at me, trying to read my expression. "So you're giving up?"

"No one said give up," I replied quickly, feeling defensive. "But it's been almost seven years, Lila. We deserve a break. You know, a bed, a shower."

She didn't say anything at first, just stared at the rat as it cooked over the fire. I could see the gears turning in her head, the internal battle between the fighter in her and the exhaustion we both felt. Finally, she sighed, a small, tired smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"I would strangle a kitten for a hot bath," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked down at the rat, then back at me. "Just for a few days, okay? This doesn't mean that we're giving up."

"No," I agreed, relieved that she was willing to consider it.

"Okay," she said, and for the first time in a long time, it felt like we had something to look forward to, however small it might be.