But you were wrong the other day. That’s...

But you were wrong the other day. That’s not what a train does to you. It doesn’t mush you up in neat little pieces. This train, she’s a knife. That’s why we loved her. Me and Brett. This train, you’ve seen her. So much beauty she’s breathless: a huge hunk and chunk of shiny black coal blasted fresh out of the mountain. (Beat.) We had a good start, me and Brett. We both could have made it. ‘Course Brett, he was faster. I expected to be running behind. But Brett was worried. About me. He was stupid like that. He turned to look over his shoulder at me and he tripped. I thought he’d just jump up and keep going so I passed him right by. We’d timed it right, and right then that engine was so close I could smell her. (Beat) I thought Brett was right behind me. I thought he was running behind me. I could hear him behind me. He didn’t call out. He didn’t say wait up. I didn’t know. Why didn’t he call out? Not even a sound. Brett just sat there where he’d fallen. And then he stood up, slowly, like he had the time. He stood there looking at her, looking her straight in the face, Almost like it was a dare. Like: Go ahead and hit me. You can’t do that to a train. You can’t dare a train to hit you. Cause it will.

Wallace, Naomi. The Trestle at Pope Lick Creek. Broadway Play Publishing, Inc. 2000. pp. 37-38.