The Blonde

5:21 a.m.

Jack grabbed a stretch of greasy chain with both hands and steadied himself before he could slip down onto the tracks. He didn’t know what was worse: the roaring of the car on the tracks or the roaring in his head. Get inside. Get near someone. Now.

He found the handle, yanked down. The door opened and Jack threw himself inside.

Still blind, he felt his shoulder bump into something. Something soft.

“Hey!”

He threw out his hands, looking for one of the metal poles attached to the seats and roof of the car. Instead, he found something else soft. Two things, to be precise. Draped in cotton. Warm.

A shriek.

And then a punch, right to Jack’s ribs.

The pain made him want to fold in half, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. He was near people again. The Mary Kates were retreating from his brain. That was all that mattered. Let them punch and kick and spit at him. Let everyone abuse him. Let his eyes burn out of their sockets. It didn’t matter. He was alive.

For the moment.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” someone said.

But Jack couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from. Right next to him, or farther down the length of the car?

“I need to sit down,” Jack whispered, and flung out his hands again. Feeling out for someone, anyone, to sit next to.

But all he felt was empty air.

He tried opening his eyes, but it hurt too much. He felt vibrations on the floor beneath his feet. Was that the usual rumbling of the train car, or were people moving away from him? Running away from him?

“Someone help me, please,” Jack said.

As the train decelerated, the throbbing in his head returned.