Free The Moon Sisters by Therese Walsh

asymmetry, explosions of shapes and colors—the darkest of browns and greens, reds and blacks, purples and blues—assaulting me like hail in a wild storm.
    I covered my ears with my palms, clamped my jaw to keep my teeth from rattling, and planted my head against the rocking steel car as wind snatched at my hair and threw it back into my face. I began a chant to my family, told them one hundred times that I was sorry.
    Urine with a hint of French fries and hamster bedding. That’s what the car smelled like. Every part of me felt as trapped as my toes against my shoes, as I cried along with the train. With my eyes closed, I could envision my sister: the grim line of her mouth, the sharp jab of her gaze. She’d be back at the restaurant by now. What would she feel, finding me gone? Probably relief at being rid of me.
    Someone tapped on my wrist. I opened and adjusted my eyes to find a redheaded girl there. Her voice rose above the noise. “It’s all right. We’re away from the yard now, and my brother’s got the dog. Kramer’s bark is way worse than his bite, anyway, trust me. If anything, he’d lick you to death.”
    I hugged my left arm, felt a slick of blood and the stick of slivers under my fingers from the fall I’d taken earlier.
    She whistled. “Fuckadoodledoo. You’re bleeding. Hobbs?” A true shout. “She’s bleeding. Do you have a bottle?”
    I tried to make out the others on the train—three more strangers, and the dog. Someone stood. I turned my head, still not sure that I was safe, but there were no options there; beside me lay stacks of things, a big wooden structure of some sort.
    “Pallets should stay put, if you’re worried about ’em,” said a male. He leaned over the girl’s shoulder, a hood pulled up around his face. “Only one died on this rail because of pallets, and the way the story’s told he wasn’t too bright. Glad to see you looking at them, though. Jop wanted to toss you off if you really were blind.”
    I dropped my forehead to my knees and sobbed again.
    “Niiiiice,” said the girl.
    “Well, she can see, right?”
    “How am I supposed to know?” she said, and rubbed my shoulder. “No one’s going to throw anyone over the side. Jop is king of the dipshits. I know that because he’s been my brother for the last eighteen years.” She sat beside me. “Listen, we can either leave you alone or help you clean your cuts. Whatever, though, right? It’s your call.”
    A line of warm blood trickled down my left elbow. I had no idea how bad my cuts were, if they were deep and dirty and could become infected. I’d have to decide: trust or not trust, risk or not risk. Or maybe there was nothing to decide at all.
    I held out my arm.
    “You do it, Hobbs,” she said.
    Something was passed between them, and even I could make out the bold black-and-white label, the blur of “Vladimir” on the bottle of vodka. I’d seen plenty of that around my house over the last few months. This was going to sting.
    “You want a swig first?” asked Hobbs.
    “No, thanks,” I said, my voice a sandpaper rasp.
    My doctor told me years ago to avoid liquor or drugs stronger than aspirin, that my mind was altered enough by nature and there was no telling how heightening that would affect me. Maybe he saw a spark of curiosity in my eyes, because he spent the next ten minutes going on about drug-related disasters, like kids on LSD who’d leaped out of windows thinking they were pools of water, which scared me enough that I listened for the most part; I’d had a few sips of beer here and there with no dramatic results. But,even though I’d already left my better judgment behind me, I didn’t think drinking myself into oblivion with a group of strangers would help any.
    Hobbs said, “You’re not a snob like this one, are you? A girl who needs her liquor strained through a Brita before she’ll drink it?”
    “What’s a Brita?”
    “Never mind,” he said.
    “Trust me, girl, it doesn’t