THE BOY
“And so it’s to Vítkovice,” Hans sighed in answer to the announcement, that because of a disruption along the tracks, the train was ending its course at a peripheral station.
“What’s that look like, a disruption on the tracks?” asked Hans’ fifteen-year-old son, his boy, so to speak. A boy who stretches up it seems by decimetres at a time, for whom his father’s shoes are too small already, as was proven when, soaked through on a mountain ramble, he was offered his father’s spare tennis shoes. He couldn’t squeeze them on.
“A disruption…” Hans imagined the two bright, sharp railroad tracks lit up by the front headlamps of the locomotive. On it races and races until, suddenly, they end, and the machine breaks down in the black smut of darkness.
“…I don’t know. Some sort of failure
