The Dunes Park station was small and lonely, placed a few miles from the entrance to the state park. The business commuters had already crammed themselves into earlier trains. I was glad that my chances of having to share a bench seat with someone else were slim. I needed to be alone for this.
Cara parked by the entrance and got out the car with me. The November air was chilly with a biting breeze that wouldn’t let up. Snow wasn’t far off. I latched the first few buttons on my sweater and heaved the duffel bag onto my shoulder.
“Don’t forget to start the truck every few days or it won’t start when I get back,” I reminded Cara for the third time that morning.
She didn’t roll her eyes or heave an exasperated sigh. She simply smiled. “I will. And don’t you forget what you’re doing this for.” Her arms pulled me in for a tight squeeze.
“I won’t,” I whispered into her soft hair. I inhaled her jasmine perfume, savoring the sweet scent for as long as I could.
In the distance, I heard the faint cry of the train’s horn, signaling its approach to the short platform. We both pulled away from each other and craned our heads. Around a bend of tall trees I saw the silver engine car like a mythical creature coming to take me away to a far off land, never to return. I swallowed to wet my dry throat.
“You better hurry,” Cara said with a small pat on my arm.
I grimaced and waved goodbye as I ran through the open doors of the one room station house to the platform on the other side. The South Shore Line was just approaching as I reached the tracks.
There was only one other person waiting there—a young woman in hip clothes and a large pageboy hat carrying a saddlebag across her chest. I imagined her life as an art student in downtown Chicago. Her dorm room was probably decorated with cool band posters and drawings she had gotten A’s on in school. She seemed like the type of girl who was outgoing and had lots of friends to traipse around the city with. I wondered if I had gone to school for journalism if my life would be like that girl’s—if I would look as bohemian as her and be surrounded by odd and interesting people. None of that mattered I told myself as I blinked away my wonderment. I would never have that life.
I waved again to Cara who stood in the doorway of the old brick building, a tissue in one hand and her other waving furiously above her head. More than anything, I would miss her. She was the only friend I had, and a damn good one at that. She was also the only connection I had to the normal world, because I was sure whatever world I was about to step into would be anything but normal.
The train ride
Broken Angel (Book 1 in the Chronicles of a Supernatural Huntsman series) Page 7