POV: Jane
The viper tattoo on the stranger’s neck seems to slither under the flickering fluorescent lights, its inked fangs frozen an inch from his jugular.
My fingers curl around the pepper spray buried in my bag, the cheap plastic digging into my palm like a sharp anchor in the middle of chaos. The man across the laminate table leans back, stretching his arm over the vinyl seat like he already owns the entire train car. The pungent stench of cheap tobacco and chemical body spray hijacks my senses.
“Long trip?” he asks.
His voice is syrup poured over broken glass. He knows I’m alone. He thinks I’m alone.
“Not long enough,” I say, keeping my tone as flat as the Pennsylvania highway blurring outside.
He laughs, a low, rattling sound. “See, that’s the thing about trains. No stops fo
