It was late, long past the time where most sane people would be asleep. The train rumbled continuously beneath the seats, the moon bright against the white pages of my journal, highlighting the many doodles I had marred them with in a halfhearted bid to entertain myself.
Across from me, the two Tringhams slept deeply, Russel’s fair head resting to the side and Fletcher sprawled across his lap, the older boy’s hand resting lightly on his brother’s slowly moving chest. Barret snored softly beside me, face pressed against the window and breath drawing a little circle of mist with every exhaled. He looked so relaxed in his sleep, not quite so serious, and I idly wondered what had happened to him to make him so closed off.
I fiddled with a doodle of the two boys, but unfortunately for them,
