Chapter 2: Running the Rails

My uncle and aunt's voices came through the phone in broken sobs, nearly fainting from worry.

Their words tumbled over each other, breathless and desperate, as if the phone itself could save Tyler if only they pleaded hard enough.

"Jason, it’s Tyler—he’s been in a bad wreck! They’re rushing him to the hospital. You need to get here, now—drop whatever you’re doing!"

Aunt Linda’s voice cracked, every syllable laced with panic. I could practically see her clutching Uncle Mike’s arm, face blotchy with tears. My own stomach lurched.

"The doctor said the injuries are serious, one leg probably can't be saved—hurry!"

Uncle Mike's words came out in a strangled whisper, like he couldn’t quite believe them himself.

"Jason, are you listening to me?"

I realized I’d frozen, phone pressed so hard to my ear my hand was numb. Their shouts bled through the static.

My mind went blank as memories from my previous life surged like a tidal wave.

Suddenly, I could smell antiseptic, hear the distant beep of hospital monitors, feel the old ache in my bones—the memory of dying was that strong. I clenched the phone, knuckles white.

The pain I felt before dying still lingered, my breathing sped up, and cold sweat broke out on my forehead.

I could almost taste copper, my heartbeat roaring in my ears. My shirt stuck to my back, damp with fear.

"Jason, Jason, say something!"

My uncle’s voice sounded small and afraid, like a little kid lost in a big-box store.

"You only have this one cousin, Tyler! What's more important, work or your cousin? If anything happens to your cousin, I'll hold you responsible!"

That old Midwest guilt trip. The kind that sticks to your skin like January wind. My jaw tightened.

I took a deep breath.

Air rattled in my lungs. I tried to steady my hands, counting slowly like my therapist once taught me. One, two, three…

"Uncle Mike, Aunt Linda? What happened to Tyler?"

My voice shook, but I forced it out. It sounded steadier than I felt.

"I'm on a business trip out of town. Even if I go back now, I won't make it in time."

I heard the conductor's call in the distance, muffled through the glass. I glanced at my carry-on, the ticket sticking out of the front pocket—a small, sharp reminder of how far away I really was.

"Hello? What did you say? The signal on the train is bad, what did you say... hello..."

The cell service hiccupped, cutting out every third word. Their voices faded to static.

I hung up and immediately switched my phone to airplane mode.

A low buzz of relief settled in my chest, just for a second. No more calls, no more accusations. I stared out the window at the endless sweep of farmland and rusty silos.

Then I booked an Amtrak ticket to the next state online, asked for leave from my company, and boarded the train right away.

The train rocked beneath me, the rails humming like an anxious heartbeat. I stared out at endless rows of cornfields, trying to piece together what the hell I was supposed to do next. My hands shook as I fumbled with the Amtrak app, double-checking the route to Cincinnati. The company group chat pinged as I typed out my OOO request: "Family emergency. Will update when possible." I barely heard the conductor announce, "Tickets, please!" as I squeezed into my seat, heart pounding with dread and déjà vu.