"I know that," Iris said, a little impatiently. "You're too old."
"I am. Way too old. I'm a different James. I've got a kid, and a job, and a bad knee, and I'm a different James altogether." He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "But I know where yours said he'd be. And it's not Denver. And it's not Omaha."
Something moved in her face.
"Ninety seconds," said the radio on Ms. Dobrev's shoulder somewhere back in the train, faint, through two sets of doors.
"He said—" Iris began, and stopped. Her hands unfolded and folded. "He said. In the letter. He said—oh, I can't. I can't get it. It's right there and I can't get it." Her voice went thin. "I've lost it. I keep losing things. I lose everything now, I put things in the drawer with the batteries and I can't—"
The vestibule door at the end of the car hissed open.
James turned his head, and there, coming through it, red from head to foot, her hair wild and her scarf gone and her face blotched from crying or from cold, was Petra. And behind her, holding her hand, was Ruby. And behind both of them, filling the doorway, with his red cap in his hand out of some old-fashioned courtesy and his broad face grave, was the Red Cap from the cart.
"Mr. Sumner drove us," Ruby announced, before anyone could ask. "I told him about the owl and he said get on."
"Thirty-one years I been driving that cart," said Mr. Sumner, in a deep, unhurried voice. "That lady walked behind me all the way down that ramp and I never looked. You always look." He shook his head. "Gate agent's my cousin's wife. She'll forgive me."
Iris was staring at Petra.
"Oh," she said. "It's the girl in red."