Car by Car
Starring Nana, Parker
When a freight train squeals to a stop right behind Nana's fence at midnight, Parker begs his grandmother to help him peek inside every rattling boxcar. Their moonlit search turns messy and scary before they discover a family of raccoons nesting in the hay car and a runaway circus goat in the caboose. Nana's old railway key and Parker's stubborn curiosity get them through the chaos together, and the two end the night sharing peppermints as the train rumbles off into the dark. The story is about the flutter of being brave and scared at the very same time.
CLANG. SCREECH. THUD. The whole house shook. Parker sat straight up in bed, grabbed his magnifying glass off the nightstand, and pressed his nose to the window. A train had stopped right behind Nana's fence, so close he could count the rust spots on its metal skin. "Car by car, what do you hide?" Parker whispered to the dark shapes. "Rattle and clatter, open wide."
Parker crept down the hall in his socks, straight into Nana, who was already awake with her peppermint tin rattling in her cardigan pocket. "Going somewhere?" she said, one eyebrow up. "The train, Nana! I have to see what's inside! Please?" Parker's socks slid on the wood floor as he bounced on his toes. Nana popped a peppermint into her mouth and grabbed her old cap off the hook. "Well now. Stick close, and we go together. Hush now, or you'll wake the whole street."
Outside, the train sat huge and quiet, ticking as its metal cooled. Parker ran his hand along the first boxcar door and slid it open with a groan of rusty wheels. A cloud of yellow dust puffed into his face. He sneezed so hard his magnifying glass flew out of his hand and skittered across the gravel. "Just grain," Nana said, patting dust off his shoulder. "One down."
The second car's door was stuck fast, latched tight. From inside came a scratchy, scrabbling sound, like claws on wood. Parker froze. "Car by car, what do you hide?" he whispered, but this time it didn't feel like a game. "Nana, something's in there." Nana leaned close to the crack in the door, sniffing the air like she already had a guess.
Parker grabbed a stick and jammed it into the latch, straining with his whole body. The latch popped, but the stick flew backward and cracked against Nana's fence. Somewhere down the yard, a dog started barking like the whole night was falling apart. "Shh, shh," Nana hissed, grabbing Parker's sleeve, both of them holding still as statues until the barking faded.
When it was quiet again, Nana reached into her cardigan and pulled out something Parker had never seen: a heavy iron key on a ring, stamped with tiny railway letters. "Kept this since I signaled trains, before your mother was born," she said, sliding it into the real lock beside the broken latch. The door rolled open. Inside, curled in a nest of hay and an old blue cloth, was a plump raccoon and three sleepy babies blinking up at the lantern light. "Well now," Nana breathed. "Hello, Digger."
They almost turned back then, but one more car stood dark at the very end, its door already rattling like something inside wanted OUT. CRACK. The door burst open and a shaggy goat came leaping straight over Parker's head, horns first, a red bandana flapping loose behind him, bleating like a trumpet gone wrong. Baby raccoons scattered, Nana's cap flew off, and somewhere behind them the train gave a long, low groan and lurched forward an inch. "RUN!" Parker shouted, and for once, Nana didn't argue.
They tumbled over the fence just as the train groaned awake and rolled off into the dark, wheels clacking, red taillight shrinking to a dot. Parker sat in the wet grass, hair full of hay, watching the last car disappear. Nana settled beside him, dented tin in hand, and popped it open. "Car by car," Parker said quietly, picking his magnifying glass out of the grass, "we found out what they hide." Nana handed him a peppermint, and somewhere down the tracks, a goat's bleat and a chorus of raccoon chatter drifted back on the wind before fading into the dark.
