Every night I hear the trains going by. They used to be a mile away when I was younger, give or take a block: it depends how we walked to them, and we used to have arguments over whose house was closest.

The doctors tell me there aren’t any trains around for miles. But I wake each evening hearing them move down the tracks like judgment day: 3 rails shaking under the wheels and one long low horn.

It’s purple.

Like my prose, when I try and write about it in my diary, which the doctor reads every week, thinking I don’t know.

I KNOW A LOT OF THINGS !

I know it’s because I made fun of the tank engine, of Thomas and his friends when my parents bought me the books because we talked about the train and they heard us. It’s why I hear the trains, I and I alone, and why the trains comes closer every night.

My doctor’s name is Thomas, too. And he smiles just like the tank engine does. But he doesn’t come close to me anymore. And I’m almost sure he’s not Thomas and not a train.