I was home in time for supper that day. It felt good to be back in the old routine for a bit. I even savored it a little, knowing that if I played my cards right, this could be the last of the old routine I'd ever see.

Before going inside, I stopped at the old hand-pump next to the barn and washed the dust off my face, hands and neck. I'd plowed dusty fields before, but this beat all and I knew I'd be running a bath for myself tonight.

The kitchen was alive with heat and steam. My mother leaned over the stove, rearranging pots and trying to get the flue set right. Seeing me, she hastily wiped her hands on her apron. "What on earth have you been into?"

I glanced down at my overalls, which were still dust-covered. "Dust storm came up."

"Get yourself changed. Supper'll be ready soon and your father will be back any minute."

By the time I came back into the kitchen, dressed in slacks and a clean white shirt - my old school clothes - the table was half-set and my father sat at the head, droplets of moisture trickling down the water-glass at his side. He sat up when he saw me, then pushed a chair out and eagerly gestured for me to take a seat. I looked over at my mother, tossing wood through the stove's firedoor, and sat down. Dusty evening sunlight gleaming in his eyes, my father asked me "So, which engine did you have? Number nine again?"

I nodded. "That's right."

"That oil fire got round you yet?"

"Not so much as it might have, I had to raise steam on wood."

"Ah! Something you're used to." He paused for a sip of water. I heard sloshing behind me - probably the soup being ladled out. He went on: "Only you're not used to a firebox that big. How'd you manage it?"

"I had help. From one of the old retired men hanging around the station."

My father's eyes narrowed - smaller but still gleaming. "What's his name?"

"I've only heard him called Boomer."

"Boomer?" He looked over my shoulder - probably exchanging glances with my mother - and he seemed almost ready to laugh. "Let me guess his age. Well into his seventies? Past eighty? You know what a 'boomer' is? It's a railroadman who goes from job to job. I'll bet your Boomer's been clear across the country and never worked for one road more'n five years."

Clear across the country? I sat up and my father sat back, looking over at the window. The fresh wood had begun to crackle and pop in the stove and I could see steam drifting upward in the corner of my eye.

Something hit the table with a dull clunk. It was my mother setting out the plates - one for me, one for her, one for dad. She held her fingers on his for a second, as though trying to keep it from flying away. When she turned back to the stove, he sat up again. "Right about the time you were born, Charlie - there were boomers all over the valley, looking for work. They couldn't get along the way they had been, what with labor unions nationwide and railroads going cross-country - times had changed too much. I'm surprised you found one still alive."

We ate supper that night without much talking. My parents talked about familiar things like the neighbors and the war but I was miles away, trying to think of some way to tell them I was leaving home -- five days out of the week. Dad was spooning himself some green beans when he said, "So, Charlie, how's your boss?"

I swallowed. "Mr. Ross?"

"That's the man."

"He wants me to stay up at Keeler during the week so I can work regularly."

I spat the words out quickly, then sat very still. My mother looked from me over to my father. He chewed his beans slowly and asked, "What'd you tell him?"

"I said I'd have to ask you."

"Well, you have. Tell him no."

He went on eating. My mother and I stayed still. I scrambled for an answer. "But the engine won't be leaving from Owenyo anymore. I may have to give it up if I can't get to Keeler on time."

My dad laid his fork on his plate. "Transfer to another route."

"I was lucky to get this one. I'm barely staying on it now."

"Then you may have to give it up altogether."

There wasn't much I could say to that. I glanced at my mother and added, "Lionel's also staying up there. We could board together." My mom looked away from me, her arms propped on the edge of the table and her mouth a flat, level line. My father silently drank his coffee.

I went to bed without hardly saying another word. The window was open to let in the cool night air and with it the whistles of unseen Southern Pacific trains. I thought that my mother had put her weight behind this job once before; maybe she'd do it again.

We went through most of breakfast before my father said, "Charlie, we'll try it for a week." I stopped eating and looked up. My dad was poking at the remains of his flapjacks. "Now be sure wherever you're staying is clean, and find out where to get food if they don't feed you. Stick with Lionel, he's real sharp about these things. And if anything happens -- anything at all -- you come straight home on the next train. All right?"

I nodded enthusiastically. My mother pointed to me and told my dad, "See that? He's got that silly grin of yours. That's where he got it." My father gave her one of his thin-lipped, cryptic smiles that made me wonder what he was thinking.

I was still walking on air when I went to town Sunday evening for some last-minute supplies. It was cool and dusky and most people were just sitting on their front porches, waiting to talk to whoever came by. Almost everything closed on Sundays, but most of the store owners would unlock the shop and sell you something if you asked nicely enough.

Lionel came up alongside me as I was coming away from the pharmacy. I think we were both a little self-conscious, dressed as we were in our Sunday best, which we'd never changed out of since that morning. "Hear you're going to Keeler after all, Charlie."

"So I am." I jauntily swung one hand by my side, trying to look like something out of a Ronald Colman movie. Lionel was wearing the cream-colored sport jacket he'd worn at graduation, the one with the odd brass buttons. "Mr. Ross is putting us in a boardinghouse within sight of the roundhouse. We'll be sharing a room, breakfast and supper included with the rent. The place is run by a conductor's widow." He wore a dapper little smile as he spoke and the warm evening light almost made his darker skin seem to glow. I asked, "How'd you find all that out?"

"At the station." He pointed to it. Most people had drawn their black curtains, but the station stood out next to a towering red signal-light and gleaming, silvery rails. As we came closer I saw there was someone on the platform but I didn't realize who it was until he called, "Charlie! Hey, Charlie!"

It was Randy. Private Randolph Norman Pratt, United States Army, jogging toward us in full uniform, all the creases and cuffs of his outfit boldly pressed. Stopping in front of me, he dropped his drab green kit bag, grabbed my hand and shook it. "Boy, it's good to see you. What are you doing these days?"

"Working for the railroad," I answered.

"Good for you. I'm here on leave. Sergeant calls me the runt of the company, says there's no way we're going to Japan, says the Marines and the Navy are handling it." His face seemed to get more and more pinched as he rattled all that off. I wasn't sure whether to be sorry or glad for him. "So," he continued, "you're with the railroad."

"That's right."

"Than can you tell me when my train's due. Damned if the S.P. ever runs on time."

"Which train? The Daylight?"

He laughed. "Don't I wish. No, the northbound local, about this time, whatever that is. It was due ten minutes ago."

I heard Lionel's watch click open. "Five minutes," he said.

Randy barely gave him a glance. "Yeah, thanks. What were you saying, Charlie?"

Gesturing to Lionel, I replied, "What he said."

Randy gave me a stare with his pinched eyes. "You don't know?"

"I don't have a watch."

"Five minutes," Lionel repeated. "I got it straight from the stationmaster. Train's not more than five minutes out."

Randy stared at Lionel as if he were a store mannequin that had just started talking. Crisply closing his watch, Lionel dropped it back into his pocket, keeping his eyes on Randy all the while.

Private Pratt, U.S. Army, picked up his kit bag and slung it over his shoulder, his face wearing a smile that was halfway to a grimace. "See ya, Charlie." He trudged back to the station.

Lionel and I set off down the street in silence. We'd only gone past a few doors when he nudged me by the elbow. "Come over here." He led me to a storefront where warm electric light spilled through the plate-glass display windows and out onto the street -- they hadn't drawn their black curtains yet. It was too dark to read the signs out front and I had to look over the barrels of nails and racks of tools before I realized we were looking into the Holdens' hardware store. For some reason my eyes went right to Laurie Holden.

She wasn't the only person in the shop -- her father was there, along with a couple of other men I didn't recognize. It looked like they were all speaking at once, one of the men with his arms folded, the other gesturing wildly, the father going through a series of bins on the back wall and tossing what he found to Laurie. She was leaning over a book on the counter when she suddenly looked up, silenced them all with a wave of her pen, and said something.

We couldn't hear her, but whatever she said caused the entire group to break into laughter. Laurie also laughed, leaning on the counter with one elbow, and her hair seemed to shimmer in the light from the lamp directly over her head.

A whistle drifted by from somewhere down the tracks and I turned just in time to see Lionel pull his watch out. He glanced at it, then put it away, smiling. His face seemed to be basking in a warm, triumphant glow, and when he looked back in the window, I could tell he was looking at Laurie.

She stopped laughing and looked at the window intently. It wasn't quite dark; she could probably tell there was someone out there. Tilting his head ever so slightly in my direction, Lionel said, "Let's go, Charlie."

We went.

We boarded the train at four the next morning. The hardware store and all the other buildings were dark. Only the station's solitary signal-light still glowed red.

The land was a deep blue but the sky had lightened and showed yellow around the horizon. The smell of wet sage crept in along with the scent of steam and journal oil. Lionel showed his ticket to the conductor, I showed him my pass and we were ushered aboard. The whistles were sounded, brakes released and the dark little town beneath the big, bright sky slid out of sight.

Lionel settled into a chair in one of the almost deserted coaches and leaned back comfortably, a hint of that triumphant smile still glimmering in his eyes. I was on the edge of my seat, tense and fidgety, as the train hurtled headlong for Owenyo, engine number nine and the edgily affable Tom Harrow.