February Fever by Jess Lourey Page A

balanced my suitcase in one hand and Kennie’s package in the other and led the way to the back of the line. People were moving forward fluidly. When it came to our turn to board, I started to pull out my driver’s license before I mounted the stepping stool.
    â€œWhat’re you doing?” the porter asked. He was in his late thirties, I would guess, and looked tired or strung out. His blue uniform was wrinkled though his porter’s hat was crisp.
    â€œGetting my identification.”
    â€œJust get on the train.”
    His rudeness gave me pause. “Don’t you even need to see my ticket?”
    â€œWe get that once the train is moving.”
    That seemed like incredibly lax security—anyone could get on or off at a stop—but I guess it was their party. I held up Kennie’s package. “I’m transporting this for a friend. Where’s the best place to store it?”
    He stared over my shoulder like I was wasting his time and jerked a thumb toward the rear of the train.
    â€œThere’s a storage area in back?” I asked glancing behind me. The line wasn’t that long. We had plenty of time to board and still be ahead of schedule.
    â€œNext!” he said, trying to push me up and into the train.
    â€œWait,” I said, anger burbling. “I need to store this package. Can you tell me where to go with it?”
    He sighed as if I’d ask him to donate his spare kidney. “What is your seat number?”
    Mrs. Berns popped her head up, inserting herself into the conversation. “We are in Sleeper Car Eleven, Room Two, you rude bastard.” She employed the same even tone she used to discuss the weather or order a meal. I still wasn’t accustomed to a friend who spoke her mind, but boy did I enjoy it. “If you’d just answered her question like a normal human being, we’d already be out of your hair.”
    The porter’s eyes widened, and he had the good sense to take her words as the wake-up call she’d intended. “Sorry, ma’am. I’m pulling a double shift. The Car Twelve porter is sick, and so I haven’t slept in twenty-eight hours.”
    She held eye contact.
    He grew paler, if such a thing was possible. “But that’s no excuse, of course. Here. Let me take your package. I’ll see that it gets to the storage car. Sleeper Car Eleven, Room Two, you said?”
    â€œYup, and that’s more like it,” Mrs. Berns said, stuffing a five-dollar bill into his hand. Her creased face was lit by the most beautiful smile. “Buy yourself a shave and keep the champagne coming. I’m here to have a good time!”
    The people in line behind her cheered.
    I grinned. You would have too, if you’d been there.

Eight
    â€œDid we accidentally get on the ‘It’s a Small World’ train, rather than the ‘Normal Human Proportions’ train?” Mrs. Berns asked, incredulous, on the threshold of Sleeper Car 11, Room 2.
    I had to agree.
    We’d jostled our way through three different train cars, all set up the same—two rows of comfy-looking chairs on one side, two rows on the other, and storage racks over both. It was promising, especially compared to airplane travel, at least what I knew of it from secondhand descriptions. The coach seats reclined to almost a 45-degree angle, at which point a foot rest sprang up. They each also had a dedicated table and cup holders, and several of them had outlets.
    We’d dropped Jed off at his seat in Car 8, before heading back. When we reached Car 11, the aisle narrowed. Rather than running straight through center, the hall veered off to the right, leaving only windows on the right side and rooms on the left. A refrigerated cart stacked with mini champagne bottles stood at the head of the aisle.
    Mrs. Berns grabbed four tiny bottles with her free hand. “Stuff some in your pockets.”
    â€œYou don’t have to tell me