We're standing half in the railyard and half out, where the chain-link fence is broken. I look at the city lights and the dark buildings, trying to see the hotel, then the other direction to the dark trees of the forest park.
"Will it be loud inside the train?" I say.
"We'll see," Father says.
"We'll hear," I say.
"Good one, Caroline."
"How can you tell which train is which?" I say.
"The numbers," he says.
"Does it matter which one we catch?" I say. "Where are we going?"
Father doesn't answer. He's wearing black eyeglasses without glass in them. I can't tell if he's trying to slouch or the way he stands has changed. We are trying not to look like ourselves. His red pack is black along the bottom it's so dirty now and there's more duct tape patches and dental floss stitching and the ragged holes where grommets have fallen out. The teeth don't hold on the zipper of my pack so every time I check I have to unzip and zip it again. Randy looks out crushed by all my papers and my underwear and socks. That's all I have that I'm not wearing.
"We're going south," Father says at last. "I don't want you to get any colder than this."
I look up at his face and he's not looking at me. His eyes jerk out along the fence, past the trains, back again.
"What are you looking for?" I say. "Vincent or Victor or whoever?"
"Anyone," he says. "Anyone could be looking for us."
"You're not hiding in a smart way," I say. "All that jerking around draws attention."
Two tracks away a train sits still. It's been here for the last half hour, ever since we came. Now there's a long creak like the train is thinking about moving but nothing happens.
"It's all this light," he says. "It's not dark enough."
"These lamps are on all night," I say. "For the trains."
"Here it comes," Father says. "Stay close to me, don't fall behind. Once I'm on, I'll reach down and pull you up."
"Good," I say.
"Watch your legs, Caroline," he says. "Keep them from getting caught underneath."
We look away from the train as it comes close so the engineer in the front won't see us.
"Now," Father says.
The ground is all black and greasy sharp stones which make it hard to run. The train is sliding by fast enough that the writing is all blurred and we run at an angle aiming for the black square of an open door. But Father slows and circles away then before he even touches the train. I follow him back into the shadows where the fence has come undone.
"What?" I say.
"That wasn't the one," he says. "Were the numbers wrong?"
"I had a bad feeling," he says. "It was an unlucky train."
"An unlucky train?" I say.
"I think there might have already been people in there," he says. "People we don't want to meet. Hoboes."
"Hoboes?" I say.
We wait some more. I've been imagining us sleeping on a pile of straw all night on the train. Now that I'm closer to the trains, I see that it won't be anything so soft. It's cold and feels colder because of the damp. My skin on my face feels dirty from the trains. My hands are fists inside my mittens. I stamp my feet to feel them.
"Why don't we get on that train that isn't moving?" I say. "Then once it starts up we'll already be on it."
"It could be there for days," Father says. "At least the ones that are already moving we know we won't be sitting here waiting all night."
I know that Father is trying and maybe this all will help. At least we have to get out of the city where he has done so many things I thought he would never do. I tell him this over and over which is one reason I think we're leaving. It's hard to be called a hypocrite by your daughter who you have taught everything. It's hard to stay the same while everything keeps changing around you.
"This is it," Father says, and starts running at an angle to get to the next train.
This time I slip on the sharp black stones so I am further behind. Father reaches the train, he jumps up and takes hold as it slides past and I am trying to get there so he can turn and pull me up but instead he falls off flat on his back, on top of the pack and doesn't move for a moment while the metal wheels clatter by next to his head.
He rolls over finally and crawls back toward the fence, getting his feet under him, his arms dangling.
"Are you all right?" I say. "Haven't you ever done this before?"
"No," Father says. "I'm sorry Caroline. I haven't."
The bus station is the saddest place to see. Homeless people are asking for spare change outside and I wait out there while Father goes in. When he comes out he turns so no one can see and he has bills of money folded thick in his hand. He gives me some.