Free February Fever by Jess Lourey Page A

was plain-looking—brown hair, brown eyes, average nose, regular lips—maybe six-two, the spindly mustache his most arresting feature. “Hi?”
    He held out his hand. “Name’s Chad. Are you in this car?”
    Relief swept over me, followed by annoyance. Why’d he give me the look if we didn’t know each other? “I’m in this car at this moment.”
    He glanced around, unsure if I was joking or heading to my room. I wasn’t going to let him off the hook until I remembered that I wanted to see inside a roomette.
    â€œActually, I’m a car over. Mind if I peek in your room? I’m curious what exactly a ‘roomette’ looks like.”
    He stepped aside and gave me the “be my guest” gesture.
    I glanced into his space. I couldn’t make that whistle noise people use to express wonderment, so instead I made the sound I figured that whistle would make. Phooo-eee . “They sure named it right.”
    It was set up exactly like the room Mrs. Berns and I were sharing, minus any floor space, closets, or bathroom. In fact, it was like our room but dropped into the trash compactor on the Death Star, every spare bit of juice squeezed out of it, leaving only the two pieces of furniture. Well, it was like that if you were a geek who loved Star Wars. Otherwise, it was just a roomette.
    He shrugged. “It’s not much, but I call it home, at least until Portland. That where you’re going?”
    My head was stuck in his tiny space, so I didn’t realize how close he’d been standing to me. His body spray smelled like sugar and ox testicles.
    â€œThat general direction.” I flashed him a tight smile and made as wide a berth as the cramped space allowed before heading back to my cabin.

Eleven
    The people-watching at the Fargo train station was more of the same, as far as I was concerned. Mrs. Berns and I surveyed the crowd from our second-story room, pulling a reverse zoo-creature act. Tiny snowflakes were dancing toward people wearing winter gear, hugging their goodbyes, and lining up to board the train. The only remotely interesting character was a guy skimming the perimeters, smoking like his life depended on it, wearing an army-issue coat that reminded me of my dad’s fatigues, which he’d sold at a garage sale twenty years earlier.
    It wasn’t his jacket or the fact that he wasn’t wearing a hat or mittens that held my attention, though these were noteworthy. It was his expression, which landed somewhere dark between anger and excitement.
    â€œLet’s go eat.”
    I turned my attention toward Mrs. Berns. By the time I looked back outside, the guy in fatigues was gone. “Our reservation isn’t for another half an hour.”
    â€œIt’ll take us some time to get there, and who eats that late at night anyhow? I thought this was Ameri Train, not FancyPantsEuro­ Train. Those cookies you gave me echoed when they hit the bottom, that’s how empty my stomach is.”
    I stared outside again. I might never know if Fatigues got on the train. “Okay,” I said. “I’m hungry too.” And pretty excited to see the dining car. I had yet to make it that far in the train, but I’d seen enough reruns of The Wild Wild West growing up to know what to expect: curtained windows and plush couches in the anteroom; a lot of brocade and Victorian lamps, white-tablecloth tables lining the actual dining car; maybe a touch of impossibly sexy James West to keep things exciting, or—more in line with my luck—some second-string Artemus Gordon.
    â€œIt’s not going to be like The Wild Wild West ,” Mrs. Berns said, closing our door after I stepped outside. “I promise you that.”
    My mouth swung open. “How’d you know that’s what I’d been thinking?”
    â€œLike I’ve told you before, you’re easier to read than a billboard.” She started leading