The 3:40 A.M. train from New York to Providence said AMTRAK on it, but actually it was something Dante had designed for collection agents to spend eternity in-which is about how long the train took to get to Providence.

The seats were as comfortable as a tax audit, featured torn upholstery, and could have served as the focus for a rousing game of Name That Stain. Old newspapers, paper coffee cups, and beer cans festooned the aisles and the seats. The smell of stale everything perfumed what passed for air.

Neal returned from the snack car with a cup of coffee that was already semi-solid, and a Danish older than Hamlet. Graham had brought his own food, sealed in little Tupperware containers. Graham had ridden the train before.

“Why couldn’t we fly?” Neal asked.

“Because I didn’t want to.”

“You’re afraid.”

“I don’t like to fly,” Graham said, munching on a carrot stick.

“Why don’t you like to fly?”

“Because I’m afraid.”

Graham twisted open a thermos and poured hot coffee into his cup. He smiled at Neal and said, “‘Failing to prepare is preparing to fail.’”

Neal huddled up in his sport coat and tried to look out the gunged-up window. They were somewhere in Connecticut, stopped dead in their tracks, as it were, for no discernible reason. Nor did this seem to cause undue concern to the conductor, who was sleeping the sleep of the innocent in the backseat of the car. Neal thought the guy must have the metabolism of a polar bear to sleep in this cold. There was no heat on the train and it was cold for a May morning.

“You want to get drunk?” he asked Graham.

Graham opened the thermos again and held it up to Neal’s nose. “Yes.”

Neal smelled it and gave Graham his best lost-puppy look. Graham sighed and shook his head and pulled an extra plastic cup out of his bag. He removed it from its plastic wrapping and poured Neal a heavy tot.