17
“You’ve always taken things too seriously.”
On a rail car zipping high over the metropolis of Traverse II’s capital, a woman turned her shoulder to him.
He couldn't see her face, but she had long brown hair and a petite frame. Blue tank top and pink skinny jeans. She smelled of light floral perfume. That familiar smell that always reminded him of meadows.
His girl.
They were the only ones in the rail car.
A leather suitcase rested on the floor. His knee rubbed against it.
It was her suitcase.
His eyes went down to his legs.
Trousers. He was wearing trousers.
And a polo shirt.
He was human again.
There was something bristly on his face.
Glancing down slightly, he spotted a trim black beard.
In the rail car window, he saw himself in the mirror. Short black hair with a silve
