Twice a week my sister Nerva and I take the evening train home together. The train shutters as it stops at each station, and we try to find seats in the back, out of the bustle of the evening crowds. In these tempestuous days, news travels via murky alley ways and settles in the dark corners of train cars, and that’s what Nerva wants to hear. So we sit together in the train and Nerva conjures cautious, temporary friendships with the men and women around us, feeding cookie morsels to toothy children and absentmindedly scratching the chins and ears of ragged dogs. When the train car starts to shake the friendships come to an end, the informants get off, changing places with other dark-eyed, furrow-browed individuals. We ride on until the end of the line, because our house lies on the edge of town, on the road that leads out onto the highway.

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