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The light outside the tiny windows is broken up by the bars of the treeline. It almost feels, actually it does feel, pretty damn surreal, fading in and out so quick it's hard to tell when it starts or ends. No one else notices it; bigger things are going on for them. The train lurches as we pick up speed. It's so loud. White noise surrounds us while the light dims. There might be a baby crying, but the other sounds cover it up.

It's five fifty-four.

I was going to meet them at six-thirty, I think. The friendly banker had kept a perfect smile; it had been brighter than the sun streaming through the windows. It was almost enough to bring a smile to my own face, if that baby wasn't crying, at least. I am not sure what she will know, or if she would connect the pieces. It really is funny I am even thinking of this.

A man shouts that we are coming to the stop. Almost everyone braces themselves, but really, what good will that do now?

I only had five seconds to have some sort of meaningful realization, and I wasted it. I know I won't be well enough to make it at six-thirty.