Free February Fever by Jess Lourey Page B

the way toward the dining car. “Also, you just giggled and whispered ‘James West’ under your breath. Get a hold of yourself.”
    Good advice.
    I followed her toward the dining car, both of us fighting to stay on our feet as the train careened and lurched out of Fargo. We were definitely moving faster now that we’d left all signs of civilization behind. I found myself unable to argue when she passed through Car 10 and declared the roomettes so small that she wouldn’t have room to change her mind if we’d ended up there, stopped long enough to grab Jed in Car 8, proceeded through the viewing car (congested with a line snaking up from the cafeteria) through Coach Cars 6 and 5, and to the end of the line at the dining car.
    At least, Jed and I stayed at the end of the line. Mrs. Berns elbowed her way to the front, soon out of sight.
    â€œIt won’t work,” the man in front of me turned to say. “They don’t have any free tables. Even if you have a reservation, you have to wait until someone passes through here until there’s room to go in there.”
    Not much to say to that. I got comfortable, asking Jed to fill me in on his day. He was telling me about the new card game he’d learned, an adult form of Go Fish called BS, and I was about to ask him to reveal the secret he couldn’t tell me about back in Battle Lake, when Mrs. Berns returned, eyes triumphant.
    â€œOur table is ready,” she said.
    The man in front of us swiveled, his mouth a perfect O. “How’d you do it?”
    She pointed at a black plastic square that she’d taped to her wrist. “Diabetic. I have to eat regularly.”
    He nodded in understanding and made room for us to pass.
    When we were away from that gentleman and threading our way through the tight crowd, I grabbed her wrist and held it up for scrutiny. “The boom box reading light!” Fastened to her wrist, it looked like a walkie-talkie watch, or, if you didn’t examine it too closely, a medical device. “Where’d you get the tape?”
    â€œOld ladies are always prepared,” she cackled. “And thanks for the reading light. Turns out you were right about me needing it.”

Twelve
    The dining car did not disappoint. It was crowded, with ten four-tops lined on the left and twelve on the right, all but one packed full. Each table was covered in a white linen cloth with a vase of fresh pink and yellow carnations near the window, perched between the salt, pepper, and sugar packets. White napkins held metal silverware. Outside, North Dakota passed by as it should: under the cover of night, its endless flat fields of white transformed into an exciting alien landscape through the magic of moonlight and shadow.
    â€œRight this way.”
    The host appeared harried, and I didn’t blame him. People from all sides asked him for more as we passed down the aisle—more butter, more wine, more dessert. The world would be a better place if everyone had to spend a week working in food service—two weeks if they were under the impression that 10 percent was a good tip or that waitresses thought it was charming when middle-aged men stopped them with a tray full of food and commanded them to “smile!”
    We were led to the single open table.
    â€œA white tablecloth!” Jed glanced in dismay at his When hell freezes over, I’ll snowboard there, too crewneck. “I should have worn my nice t-shirt.”
    I patted his back and indicated the rest of the train. “No one else is dressed up. You’re fine.”
    I sat in the far seat near the window. Jed sat next to me and Mrs. Berns across from me. I grabbed the plastic menus from underneath the sugar ramekin and passed them each one. Our choices were simple: steak, chicken, fish, pasta, or the nightly special.
    â€œIt’s just like being back in the nursing home,” Mrs. Berns grumbled. “If dessert is pudding,