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It comes over Jane in a breathless rush, like the train blowing August’s hair back as it hurtles into the station.
“Yeah… yeah, that’s me,” Jane says. Her hands only shake a little when she takes the photo. “I told you. I got a job there right after it opened.”
“Jane.” The train trundles on. The word is almost too quiet to be heard over the noise. “This photo was taken in 1976.”
“That sounds right,” she says distantly. She’s stopped tracing the tattoo on her arm—instead tracing the shape of her chin in the photo. August wonders what the distance is between the person in front of her and the one in the photo. Decades. No time at all. “I moved here a couple of years ago.”
“Do you know what year?”
“God, probably.…’75?”
August concentrates on keeping her face and voice calm, like she’s talking to someone on a ledge. “Okay. I’m gonna ask you something. I swear to God, I am not fucking with you. Try to hear me out. Do you remember the last time you weren’t on this train?”
“August…”
“Please. Just try to remember.”
She looks up at August. Her eyes are shining, wet.
“I—” she starts. “I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s—it’s blurry. It’s all blurry. As far back as I can remember. I know I—I worked at Billy’s. 1976. That’s the last thing I remember, and I only know because you reminded me. You—you brought that back, I guess.” Her usual confidence is gone, a shaky, panicked girl in its place. “I told you, I think, um. Something’s wrong with me.”
August settles a hand over Jane’s wrist, bringing the photo down into her lap. She’s never touched her like this before. She’s never had the nerve before. She’s never ruined somebody’s life before.
“Okay,” August says. “It’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with you. But I think something happened to you. And I think you’ve been stuck on this train for a long time. Like, a really long time.”
“How long?”
“Um. About forty-five years.”
August waits for her to laugh, cry, cuss her out, have some kind of meltdown. Instead, she reaches for a pole and pulls herself to her feet, her balance practiced and sure even as the train takes a curve.
When she turns to August, her jaw is set, her gaze steady and dark. She’s heartbreakingly gorgeous, even now. Especially now: squared up to the universe.
“That’s a long fucking time, huh?” she says flatly.
“What, um,” August attempts. “What can you remember?”
“I remember…” she says. “I remember moments. Sometimes days, or only hours. I knew I was stuck here, somehow. I know I’ve tried to get off and blinked and opened my eyes in a different car. I remember some people I’ve met. That half the things in my bag are something I traded for, stole, or found. But it’s—it’s all fuzzy. You know when you drink too much and black out except for random pieces? It’s like that. If I had to guess, I would’ve said I’ve been on here for… maybe a few months.”
“And before? What do you remember before you were on the train?”
She fixes August with a flat gaze. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing but a flash of Billy’s.”
August bites down on her lip. “You remember your name.”
Jane looks at her like she feels sorry for her, one side of her mouth pulling into a joyless approximation of her smile. She takes her jacket off and flips it around, inside-out. The worn fabric tag sticks out from the inside of the collar, block letters embroidered in careful red thread.
JANE SU
“I know my name because this jacket says it’s my name,” she says. “I have no fucking idea who I am.”
6
Bunch of Punks
