The Boundless by Kenneth Oppel Page A

peg jutting from Mr. Chan’s floppy pant leg. Then he looks away, but not before Mackie has caught him out.
    â€œNah, he didn’t fall off,” says Mackie. “He was blasting in the mountains with the nitro. Got his leg blown clean off. Least he survived. Gets to work inside now. Not like us. You know there’s five brakemen killed every day cross this continent?”
    â€œThe boy doesn’t need your sob stories,” Sticks says sharply. “And neither do I. For every mile of track we laid through the mountains, four of my countrymen died.”
    Sticks hands a sullen Mackie an envelope marked with the Boundless insignia. “Get going and take that forward.”
    â€œI’ll see if anyone’s heard about this funeral guard,” says Mackie. He pulls his jacket and cap from the pegs, takes a lantern, and leaves through the forward door.
    â€œDon’t mind him,” Sticks tells Will. “He has indigestion of the soul. If he were my son, I’d have let wolves raise him.”
    Will smiles. He feels a lot better knowing his father will be getting a note about him, and the guard—and that Sam Steele will know too. He looks around the caboose, and up through the cupola windows, where he can see the full moon. The idea of spending a day in a caboose doesn’t seem so terrible—in fact, he likes it. He could do without Mackie. But how many people get to cross the country in a caboose? It’s almost as good as riding in the locomotive.
    He isn’t even aware that his eyes keep closing, until he hears Sticks say, “Why don’t you get some rest?”
    Will nods. He feels unaccountably heavy.
    â€œYou can have my cot,” says Sticks. “But if you don’t mind, have a wash first. That sasquatch urine is potent.”
    â€œSorry,” says Will, walking unsteadily toward the front of the car. Behind a small door he finds a tiny washbasin and a hard bar of soap. He scrubs at his face, especially behind his ears, until his skin is chafed.
    â€œThere you go,” says Sticks, nodding at the cot. Will is touched that he’s folded down the sheets for him.
    Will takes off his shredded jacket and vest, then sits down and removes his only shoe. It feels strange settling into someone else’s bed. His head sinks into the pillow; he pulls the blanket around his neck. Against his face gentle heat pulses from the stove. The sound of wind chimes wafts in from outside. The mattress is a bit saggy—nothing like the firm comfort of his bed in first class. But then the motion of the train, like some rough lullaby, works on him, and in moments he is asleep.

AN UNSCHEDULED STOP
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    When Will opens his eyes, it takes him a moment to understand where he is. He hears the musical trill of wind chimes. Beyond the caboose windows it’s still dark. He sees Mackie in his cap and jacket, lantern in hand, talking quietly with Sticks at the desk.
    â€œWhy’ve we stopped?” Will asks, sitting up.
    Sticks and Mackie both turn.
    â€œThere’s a slow freight ahead of us,” Sticks says. “We’re waiting for it to be shunted so we can pass.”
    â€œDid my father get the message?”
    â€œIt’ll be working its way up,” Mackie says.
    Hopeful, Will asks, “Is there enough time for me to make it up front?”
    â€œCould be. We were just going to wake you,” Sticks says. “Mackie’s going to walk you up to the next guard, and they’ll take you from there. You might make it all the way; worst case, you bunk in a guard cabin. I’d take you myself ”—he taps his wooden peg—“but I’m a bit slow.”
    â€œGet your shoe on,” Mackie says to Will. “Be quick about it.”
    Hurriedly Will ties the laces of his single shoe. Without the blankets he feels the cold again and shivers as he pulls on his vest and jacket. He’s vaguely disappointed to be leaving the