Story Time
I have a surprise this summer for all the students who are out of school for the summer and looking forward to leaving the whys, whens, whos and hows behind them for a couple of months. The summer columns will be a serialized novel I have written about a runaway girl, a dragon, and an adventure that takes Jewell from Nova Scotia to the far north. At the end, I’ll be looking for input from readers who would like to share their ideas with other readers about what happens to Jewell after my part of her story is finished. As always, I welcome your comments and questions all the time at smartypantsjw@gmail.com
I Spy a Dragon
It wasn’t Jewell’s fault. In fact, she had nothing at all to do with it. In any case, it was a mistake or an accident.
No one deserved to be punished. No one. Andrew had actually been trying to do a nice thing. It was a surprise that backfired, a good deed that went terribly wrong, but Mrs. Morton wasn’t interested in understanding the situation.
Jewell had been told to clean the kitchen, and she did. She washed all the dishes, scrubbed and waxed the floor to a brilliant shine, cleaned the stove and refrigerator, even used a wood cleaner on the cupboard doors, and a metal polish on the hinges. She was upstairs changing the beds when Andrew started making his birthday cake surprise, and she was downstairs doing laundry when the fire started in the oven.
When Mrs. Morton returned from her meeting, entering the house through the open back door, there were pools of water everywhere. The pink contents of an upturned icing bowl were creeping down the front of the cupboard; Moocho, Mr. Morton’s hunting hound, who shouldn’t even have been in the house, was actually standing on the counter with his head in the sink, eating a strange mixture of cake batter and cinders.
Flickering yellow flames were struggling back to life in the embers on the floor where Jewell had dropped the smouldering cake pan as she pulled it from the oven.
The Mortons had never acknowledged the children’s birthdays and Andrew wanted this one, Jewell’s twelfth, to be special. As Jewell later learned, her foster brother had taken great care to follow the recipe exactly. He pre-heated the oven, slid the cake pan onto the middle rack, then dashed off to buy balloons.
On their way upstairs to their rooms, Jewell pressed a little dragon whelp brooch into Andrew’s hand and mouthed the words, "I’ll always love you."
Then, with its sparkling emerald eyes, had been a parting gift to Jewell from her dying mother. Andrew reached inside his jeans pocket and withdrew his lucky brass medallion which he slipped into the pocket of Jewell’s old brown sweater, hanging forlornly now from her sagging shoulders.
That evening, confined to her room, Jewell listened through the heating vent in her floor to the Mortons’ conversation, and she heard their side of a phone call to the social worker.
Jewell Bennet would be sent away to another home, a place where "difficult children" were punished for their misdeeds, and taught to follow rules.
When the pungent smell of smoke had drawn her to the kitchen, Jewell didn’t know where Andrew was or what could possibly be burning. She didn’t know that Andrew had dropped the potholders in his haste to close the oven door and be off on his errand, or that one had slid down to rest on the red- hot element where it burst into flame. It completely burned itself out, but not until the flames had risen high enough to ignite the other one, still on the rack above.
Jewell had acted quickly and bravely to handle the situation, but she had no explanation to offer when Mrs. Morton demanded an account of exactly what had taken place.
When Andrew came bursting through the doorway, flushed from running, and eager to decorate the cake and start inflating balloons, he was instantly paralysed by the shocking realization that the pandemonium he was witnessing was entirely his doing. Fear wound itself around him like a boa constrictor and squeezed until he gasped for breath. Andrew had struggled plaintively to tell Mrs. Morton about the cake, but his explanations fell on obstinately deaf ears, and Jewell was held responsible for everything.
Andrew and Jewell knew what Jewell’s punishment would be even before Mrs. Morton triumphantly announced it through clenched teeth. It had been a threat held over the children since the day they arrived in the Morton household. Like all bullies who are motivated by the rush of power, Mrs. Morton had always hoped she would one day have an excuse to follow through on her threat.
When silence confirmed that the Mortons were asleep and Moocho was locked in the back shed for the night, Jewell tucked her long blonde hair into one of Andrew’s ball caps and dropped his old eye glasses with one taped ear lug into her pocket.
She donned a plain white tee shirt and stuffed her sweater and the blue “Save the Pandas” shirt she had been wearing into her knapsack. From its hiding place Jewell withdrew her wallet containing her MSI health card and the $624.38 she had saved from her two dollars a week allowance.
In six years she had spent very little of it, though Mrs. Morton had always resented the fact that the money was not to be used for necessities. Earlier this evening, Andrew had slid twenty dollars of his savings under her door as well.
In her knapsack Jewell had the bus and train schedules and maps she had meticulously copied during recesses at school. VIA Rail was now experimenting with an overnight run from Halifax, going west, to complement their usual mid-day train to Montreal, with a connector to Toronto. That was really a stroke of good luck.
Jewell had also packed a bottle of water, a pair of sneakers and change of clothes, a towel and washcloth, shampoo, comb hairbrush, bobby pins, toothbrush and toothpaste, hair spray, Andrew’s Boy Scout hiking kit, and a sturdy go-green bag for food.
It would be about seven hours before Jewell would be missed, and she had to use the time to get as far away as possible. At this point, nobody would be looking for a possible runaway. In twenty hours, she would be in Toronto; then on to her intended destination, a little ghost town more than one thousand kilometres from the Mortons’ home in Halifax.
Jewell had been researching ghosts for a project on the supernatural for science last year when she Googled up an article on ghost towns. Burwash, a small village in northern Ontario on 130,000 acres of land and water, was the most interesting, and the most inaccessible. It had been a self-sufficient prison farm until it closed in 1974.
By 2001, almost every sign of the former village had been bulldozed away. Jewell was certain that no one she knew had ever heard of Burwash and the search for her would never extend to a northern Ontario wilderness.
Beneath Jewell’s shirt she tied a scarf around her tiny, budding breasts, then enhanced them with tissue. She knew that a twelve year old would be allowed to travel alone on VIA Rail, but agents would request ID if there was even the slightest doubt about age. Jewell looked at herself in the mirror. Yes, she could pass for fourteen, and blending in with blue jeans and a white tee was all the camouflage she would need for now.
Jewell buckled on the knapsack, then soundlessly opened her bedroom window, reached for a branch of the towering maple that brushed against the house, and leapt into the darkness.
The first thing Jewell did when she hit the ground was soak her sneakers and clothes with the hair spray. She hoped her own scent, masked by the chemicals, wouldn’t be detectable to Moocho if Mr. Morton should offer him an article of her clothing in order to track her. It was 11:16 now and the Ocean would be leaving the station at 12:35. It wasn’t a long walk from the Mortons’ home to the VIA Rail station on Hollis, but it would be a scary one.
Jewell had never been out alone after dark and the streets of Halifax could be unsafe for lone pedestrians, especially young women.
Jewell didn’t know whether walking or running would be safer. Running would be faster, but it might attract attention. She decided on a brisk walk. It was very dark, except for a pale moon, now at the end of its last quarter, and a few street lights. There was light traffic on Queen Street, but none at all on South. Jewell wished there were more houses. Most of the buildings on South Street were commercial and they were completely unoccupied this time of night.
Jewell had gone about two blocks on South, hugging the left side of the street, when a Skylark Taxi slowed down on the other side. The driver, a woman, was alone in the cab.
She rolled down her window and called out: “ Do you need a cab?”
“No, thank you. I’m almost there.”
“You shouldn’t be walking around out here alone. Where are you going?”
“Just to the Superstore.”
“Look, I’ll drop you there. I’m going that way anyway.”
Jewell hesitated. It seemed like a kind offer and she would be more comfortable in a taxi than alone on the street. But would the driver become suspicious and report her?
Maybe it would be better to accept the drive and make up a credible story to set the driver’s mind at rest. The Superstore was good thinking. It was right across from the station and open until midnight.
Jewell crossed the street and the driver opened the passenger door.
“I’m Jayne,” said the driver when Jewell was settled in. She put the car in gear. “What does a young girl need so urgently that she has to buy it this time of night?”
“I’m meeting my friend Sara at the Superstore. We’re going to pick up a few things for a sleep-over. She’s already there with her Dad. He’ll drive us to her place.”
“Isn’t it a bit late to be starting a sleep-over?”
“It is, but Sara babysits Friday evenings. We don’t mind. We’ll be up all night anyway.”
“Don’t your parents know that a dangerous criminal escaped from Dorchester this morning?”
“They didn’t mention it, but Dorchester is in New Brunswick anyway.”
“They think he’s headed this way. Probably hitchhiking.”
“That could be risky for you too, Jayne, picking up people you don’t know all the time. How would you defend yourself?”
Jayne pulled into the strip mall parking lot and stopped by the Atlantic Superstore entrance.
“I’ll just wait here a minute to make sure your friend is there to meet you. What did you say your name is?”
“Beth,” Jewell answered, almost too quickly. “Actually, it’s Bethany, but nobody calls me that except my grandmother. It’s her name too. I was named after her.”
Jewell saw Jayne’s body relax. “You were very kind to give me a free ride,” Jewell said softly feeling guilty for the lie about her name. “It was a bit eerie walking alone. I hope that criminal doesn’t use taxis.”
She undid her seatbelt and opened the door, knowing Jayne’s eyes would be following her as she entered the store. Once inside, Jewell waved enthusiastically toward the produce aisle, hoping Jayne would think she had spotted Sara. Jayne put the car in gear and pulled away.
“Well this has turned into a good luck day,” Jewell thought to herself. “Now I can buy food for the trip and still have time to get my ticket.”
Ten minutes after entering the store, Jewell was in line at the speedy check-out and
feeling the excitement of what she was about to do mounting inside her. The cashier was about twenty, with French nails and streaked hair.
“This is a healthy looking grocery order,” she said as she scanned raisins, nuts, wheat crackers and two bags of Veggie Snacks. Jewell smiled.
“It’s actually for a sleep-over. We miscalculated, so I came for reinforcements.”
The cashier laughed. “We didn’t eat peas and carrots at any of my sleepovers.”
“They’re delicious with dip,” Jewell assured her.
Jewell packed her green bag and hurried to the exit, then ran as fast as she could across the parking lot toward the station.
Now for the real challenge. There weren’t many people waiting for the train so that was a good indication there would still be a seat. Jewell looked around for the ticket agent, then approached the wicket, exuding self-confidence. There were five people ahead of her, all adults.
“I’d like a student ticket to Toronto,” Jewell said, when her turn came. The agent looked at her suspiciously.
“Student tickets should be purchased five days in advance.” Jewell just stood there, not knowing what to do or say. “Are you travelling alone?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Jewell wasn’t expecting that question. “My grandmother gave me the money for grading. I came east to visit her, and now I’m going home,” she said, adjusting the broken lug of Andrew’s glasses over her right ear.
“Is your grandmother here now?”
“No, my uncle is. “
“Why didn’t you get a return ticket in the first place?”
“I didn’t come here by train. My uncle and I drove out.”
The agent sighed, scrutinized Jewell carefully and asked, “You’re between 12 and 17?”
“Yes, I’m 14. I have an ID in my bag somewhere. Should I dig it out?”
A couple more students, older than Jewell, had queued behind her and were grumbling that they were going to miss the train.
No, you’re at least 12, but too young for Youth. That’ll be $ 201.78. Are you checking any baggage?”
“No, I just have my knapsack and food for the trip.”
“You’ll get into Montreal at 8:15 Saturday evening and you’ll change trains. Your train to Toronto leaves Montreal at 9:40 p.m. and gets into Toronto Sunday morning at 3:57. I hope your family will be there to meet you.”
“Oh they will, with bells on,” Jewell promised as she passed the man the $202.00 she had transferred to her pocket outside the superstore.
“There’ll be a call when it’s time to board. Don’t lose your ticket,” the man advised and handed Jewell her twenty-two cents.
Done! And she hadn’t had to tell the agent her name. Jewell felt like dancing. The
Mortons would probably spend Saturday checking with her friends and searching malls and parks.
By the time the media became involved she’d be in Montreal and no one would expect her to be that far away. She would be boarding in just a few minutes and not even Andrew knew where she was going.
Jewell spotted a tall, avuncular looking man standing alone in the concession area. For the ticket agent’s benefit, she walked over to the man, smiled, and asked him the time.
In the meantime, Andrew had spent a restless night . So many times he wanted to check and see whether Jewell had escaped as planned, but he couldn’t risk awakening the Mortons.
At 3 a.m., he heard Mr. Morton in the bathroom, and his heart froze. His fingers searched his pyjama pocket for the little dragon brooch.
Mr. Morton went back to his own room without any detours and Andrew relaxed. He suddenly had a clear mental picture of Jewell on a train. She was wearing his cap and glasses and sitting beside a surly-looking man, buried in a newspaper.
Jewell looked relaxed and almost happy. Andrew drifted off to sleep.
He was awake again at six o’clock, but forced himself to stay in bed until 7:30 when he heard Mrs. Morton starting breakfast. He dressed and slipped downstairs and into the kitchen. Mrs. Morton barely looked up from the eggs she was whisking. “It’s you,” she said. “Is Jewell up?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, go and wake her up. We have a meeting with Mona at nine o’clock.”
Andrew went back upstairs, dreading every step up. He knocked on Jewell’s door and called her name. He knocked again and called louder. He tried the door and found it locked. “She has her door locked and isn’t answering,” he said, re-entering the kitchen.
Mrs. Morton slammed the bowl on the counter. “Rod, deal with Jewell,” she called to her husband. Mr. Morton shuffled in from the dining room, carrying the Halifax Herald in one hand and his reading glasses in the other.
“What’s the problem?” asked Mr. Morton wearily.
“Oh, it’s that girl! She’s locked herself in her room and won’t answer or come out.”
Mr. Morton raised his eyebrows, sighed, and opened the kitchen door to the garage. “I’ll get something to work with,” he said. In less than five minutes he was back with a chisel, a hammer, a screw driver and an awl. “One of these will get it open if it comes to that,” he promised.
Mrs. Morton and Andrew listened as Mr. Morton called to Jewell, his voice becoming
louder and more insistent with each fresh demand. “You are coming out one way or another,” he threatened.
There were no outside screws and no keyhole, so removing the knob or poking through it to the lock were both impossible. “I can take the door off!” Mr. Morton shouted, hammering on it with his fists for emphasis. “Andrew, come up here and help me pry the door open.”
Andrew moved quickly. He would rather be doing something, anything, than counting the terrible minutes while waiting in the kitchen with Mrs. Morton.
Mr. Morton inserted the chisel into the slit between the frame and the doorknob while Andrew kept trying the knob. There was a splintering sound as bits of both the doorframe and the door fell away.
Mr. Morton was able to push against the latch with the chisel, and the door opened. Two pairs of eyes swept the room. Everything was in perfect order except for the open window with the screen removed, and there was no sign of Jewell.
Mr. Morton knew before he checked the closet that he wouldn’t find her there, or under the bed. The bed itself appeared to have been slept in though. Jewell had thought of everything. The Mortons would assume she hadn’t left until sunrise.
“She isn’t here,” Andrew said, trying to relieve the tension by stating the obvious.
“She can’t have gone far,” Mr. Morton replied. “Go and get Moocho.”
A grim-faced Estelle Morton passed Andrew on the steps on his way down. When he and the dog returned, she was winding up her assessment of the situation and her husband was standing by the open window only half-listening.
“She locked the door to slow us down. She must have left within the last hour or so. It doesn’t look as if she took anything except that stupid knapsack of hers, probably full of books. I don’t think she even changed her clothes. That idiotic Panda shirt she was wearing yesterday isn’t in her laundry basket. She’s probably under a tree in the Public Gardens with her nose in a book.”
Mrs. Morton turned and directed a question to Andrew, “Didn’t you hear her at all? You must have heard something?”
“I heard the toilet flushing really early, about six,” Andrew offered, happy that he could suggest a possibility that would throw them off track.
“Make a list of her friends,” Mrs. Morton ordered. “Give Mr. Morton the dog’s leash.”
Andrew went off to his room to compile his short list. Neither he nor Jewell had ever been given much opportunity to make friends and there were no confidantes; he was sure of that.
Rod Morton picked one of Jewell’s shirts out of her laundry hamper and offered it to
Moocho. “Moocho will probably pick up her scent out by the tree and take me right to her,” he said. She couldn’t have gone far. Someone must have seen her.”
“Mona ‘ll be here at nine, so I’ll stay put and make some phone calls,” his wife answered as she scanned Jewell’s bookshelf again for a clue to the girl’s whereabouts.
Andrew could tell from Mrs. Morton’s end of the conversation that none of the girls being called was happy about being awakened before eight o’clock on a Saturday morning, especially in the summer. It was also clear that they were all as surprised by Jewell’s disappearance as the Mortons were. Jewell had never shared her ongoing research and escape plans with anyone, and she was always careful to erase her searches from the school computers.
At 9 a.m., Mona Gilbert knocked at the front door and Andrew answered. Mrs. Morton nervously appeared in the hallway and ushered the social worker into the living-room.
Mona was about thirty-five, attractive, casually dressed in white capris and a striped regatta shirt, and she carried an incongruously businesslike briefcase.
“Thank you for coming,” Mrs. Morton said, extending her hand to Mona Gilbert. “There has actually been a new development since I called you last night. Please sit down.” She motioned to the couch, then seated herself on the more imposing Victorian chair. “Jewell has run away.”
“Run away? When?”
“Well, we’re not sure. Probably between six and seven this morning.”
“Did she leave a note?”
“No, the only clue she left was an open window in her bedroom.”
“What have you done so far to find her?”
Estelle Morton recounted the details of the morning, ending with the assurance that the hound could very well have tracked Jewell down by now and she and Rod would be coming in the door any minute.
“Well, if we haven’t located her by noon, the police will have to be notified,” Mona said.
“In the meantime, I’d like to go over the events of yesterday that precipitated your call last night. Actually, I’d like Andrew to participate as well. Is he still here?”
Mrs. Morton swallowed her protest. It was clear she would have to cooperate with the social worker so she went to the bottom of the stairs and called Andrew.
When Rod Morton returned from his tramp around the neighbourhood, Andrew was in the middle of an impassioned account of the birthday cake fiasco, and a very red-faced Estelle Morton was trying unsuccessfully to silence him and retell the story from her own perspective.
All she was managing were a few high- pitched interjections, all of which Mona quietly suppressed, advising Estelle to let Andrew have his say.
“Hello,” Mr. Morton said from the living-room archway, nodding to Mona. “There’s no sign of her, and that fool of a dog wouldn’t even try to follow her scent. I knocked on doors and questioned everyone I met. No one has seen her. Any luck with the phone calls?”
“No,” his wife answered, spitting out the word as though it had been trying to choke her.
“Well, I’ll go and check the parks. Call me on the cell if there’s any news.” He nodded to Mona again and left the room.
“Okay,” Mona said quietly, clearing her throat. “What I’m seeing here is an innocent and well-meaning act of carelessness that was misunderstood and has escalated to a serious problem.
Under the circumstances, we will have to find another placement for Jewell, though not the kind of placement you suggested, Estelle. When we find Jewell and I have had a chance to discuss things with her, we can work out a solution that will be best for everyone.”
She turned to Andrew. “Now Andrew, am I right in assuming from what you have just told me that you are not contented living here either?”
“The Mortons don’t like children, and Mrs. Morton doesn’t tell the truth.”
“Okay, Andrew. You run along now and Mrs. Morton and I will try to work things out.”
Mona stood and addressed Estelle. “Contact me as soon as you hear anything. Right now
I’m going to meet with my supervisor. If I don’t hear from you first, I’ll be back at noon and we’ll go together to put in a missing persons report. I’m sure Jewell is fine and we’ll have her back by supper time. She’s a little girl who was feeling desperate, but there is really nowhere she can go on her own. On Monday, we’ll come up with a new arrangement for both children. For now, just leave Jewell’s room as it is. If the police become involved, they will want to see things just as Jewell left them.”
“I don’t like the way I’m being treated here,” Estelle said angrily as she walked the social worker to the front door, then closed it loudly behind her.
In the meantime, long before the discovery of Jewell’s disappearance, Jewell had boarded the train and was happy to see an available aisle seat beside a man who was preoccupied with a news magazine.
Most women would ask a lot of questions and try to take care of her, but the man probably wouldn’t pay any attention to her at all. With an aisle seat, she could go off to the washroom without disturbing anyone and work on cutting and curling her hair.
Once her fellow passengers began settling into sleep, Jewell made the first of several trips to the washroom. She removed her cap and looked for the last time at her beautiful long blonde hair. She then filled the small stainless steel sink with water and soaked the hairbrush, which she ran through her hair repeatedly until every strand was wet.
She parted her hair in the middle and gathered just enough hair to make one tight curl. With her right hand she wound the strand around her left pointer finger, slid the pinwheel curl onto her scalp, held it in place with two bobby pins, and cut the rest of the strand, letting it fall into a cone-shaped cup from the dispenser.
Jewell had to fight back her tears when the scissors slid through the first wisp of hair, but by the time five curls had been successfully created, she was excited by her accomplishment.
Jewell gathered the uncurled hair into a ponytail, pinned it up and covered it once more with her cap. In an hour, she would do the rest. At 6:00 a.m., when the other passengers were beginning to stir, Jewell curled up on her seat and fell asleep.
It was two in the afternoon when Jewell awoke, feeling rested and hungry. She made a quick trip to the washroom to freshen up, then opened her bag of snacks. How good it all tasted!
In an attempt to discourage the man beside her from breaking his silence and starting a conversation, Jewell opened Andrew’s survival guide and tried to read it, but the text through Andrew’s glasses was a blur. Her thoughts turned to Burwash and her new life there.
She could probably take up residence in the building that remained in the area called Camp Bison. A village named Estaire was about sixteen kilometres from Burwash. She could walk to Estaire to get her supplies. She would soon be out of money though. Well, she would deal with that problem later. Winter would be difficult. She would have to think of a way to keep warm.
Jewell’s thoughts were making her uncomfortable, so she concentrated on the illustrations of lean-tos and wild plants and reminded herself how lucky she was to have come all this way without a hitch. In less than six hours, she would be changing trains in Montreal.
A little later, Jewell had taken the pins out of her hair and was examining the results in the washroom mirror when she felt the train lurching to an unexpected stop. Someone banged a fist on the washroom door. Jewell stuffed the cap and pins into her knapsack, slid the latch and pushed open the door. The man from the seat beside her was impatiently waiting outside.
“You should have just booked the toilet,” he said gruffly. “You’re in there all the time anyway,”
“I’m sorry,” Jewell answered politely. “I have a kidney problem.”
By the time Jewell reached her seat, the train had completely stopped, but there had been no call for passengers to disembark. Jewell glanced out the window. There was no station visible, just fields of clover and a country road at a distance from the tracks. A conductor came through the car asking everyone to return to their seats and remain there. His only response to the passengers’ questions was, “There is no danger. We’ll be on our way again shortly. Be prepared to show your tickets and some picture ID if asked to do so.”
Jewell’s mind was now racing through ways to avoid having to produce an ID. What she didn’t know then was that her ID wouldn’t be an issue, but she was about to become one of the central figures in an event that would be front page news from coast to coast.
***
Once her fellow passengers began settling into sleep, Jewell made the first of several trips to the washroom. She removed her cap and looked for the last time at her beautiful long blonde hair.
She then filled the small stainless steel sink with water and soaked the hairbrush, which she ran through her hair repeatedly until every strand was wet. She parted her hair in the middle and gathered just enough hair to make one tight curl.
With her right hand she wound the strand around her left pointer finger, slid the pinwheel curl onto her scalp, held it in place with two bobby pins, and cut the rest of the strand , letting it fall into a cone-shaped cup from the dispenser.
Jewell had to fight back her tears when the scissors slid through the first wisp of hair, but by the time five curls had been successfully created, she was excited by her accomplishment.
Jewell gathered the uncurled hair into a ponytail, pinned it up and covered it once more with her cap. In an hour, she would do the rest. At 6:00 a.m., when the other passengers were beginning to stir, Jewell curled up on her seat and fell asleep.
It was two in the afternoon when Jewell awoke, feeling rested and hungry. She made a quick trip to the washroom to freshen up, then opened her bag of snacks. How good it all tasted!
In an attempt to discourage the man beside her from breaking his silence and starting a conversation, Jewell opened Andrew’s survival guide and tried to read it, but the text through Andrew’s glasses was a blur.
Her thoughts turned to Burwash and her new life there. She could probably take up residence in the building that remained in the area called Camp Bison. A village named Estaire was about sixteen kilometres from Burwash. She could walk to Estaire to get her supplies.
She would soon be out of money though. Well, she would deal with that problem later. Winter would be difficult. She would have to think of a way to keep warm.
Jewell’s thoughts were making her uncomfortable, so she concentrated on the illustrations of lean-tos and wild plants and reminded herself how lucky she was to have come all this way without a hitch. In less than six hours, she would be changing trains in Montreal.
A little later, Jewell had taken the pins out of her hair and was looking in the washroom mirror, experimenting with her new style, when she felt the train lurching to an unexpected stop. Someone banged a fist on the washroom door. Jewell stuffed the cap and pins into her knapsack, slid the latch and pushed open the door. The man from the seat beside her was impatiently waiting outside.
"You should have just booked the toilet," he said gruffly. "You’re in there all the time anyway,"
"I’m sorry," Jewell answered politely. "I have a kidney problem."
By the time Jewell reached her seat, the train had completely stopped, but there had been no call for passengers to disembark. Jewell glanced out the window. There was no station visible, just fields of clover and a country road at a distance from the tracks.
A conductor came through the car asking everyone to return to their seats and remain there. His only response to the passengers’ questions was, "There is no danger. We’ll be on our way again shortly. Be prepared to show your tickets and some picture ID if asked to do so."
Jewell’s mind was now racing through ways to avoid having to produce an ID. What she couldn’t know was that even though her ID wouldn’t an issue, she was about to become one of the central figures in an event that would be front page news from coast to coast
Continued next week.Continued ...
