Calder was a grown man who had forgotten how to stand still.

He arrived at the little country station the way he did everything -- late, hurrying, his coat half-buttoned and his mind three stops ahead -- and watched the red lights of his real train slide away into the dusk and the soft, steady rain.

The platforms were nearly empty, glazed amber by the old brass lamps, and somewhere down the far end an old machinist named Oswin tipped his cap to him, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.

Calder had no time at all, or so he always felt, and he was too tired to wonder why a man could feel so rushed with nowhere left to go. On a forgotten side track sat one last carriage, cold and dark and going nowhere, its green-and-cream paint worn soft with years. Just to rest his legs, just for a minute, Calder climbed aboard, sank into a dusty seat, and let his heavy eyes fall shut -- never noticing that this was the wrong train, the one that wasn't leaving at all.