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Lurking behind the rusted-out crates of the service yard, I have to shift my legs every few minutes to keep them from going numb and prevent the countless half-buried pebbles from drilling craters into my kneecaps and shins. I move those vital inches with complete mindfulness to avoid touching the heap of scrap metal parts right next to me. I must not violate the service yard’s silence. The surrounding trees and houses and the heaped spoil across the tracks absorb the city’s sounds, leaving the service yard to the grumble and surge of cicadas. Mosquitoes swirl and dance in the halos of light cast by the pole lamps, and fireflies trace curves over the glistening train tracks and out in the darkness. Countless crickets creak out their mating cries. The muggy air has me sweating, but my c
