She sits silently on the front porch, one dog at her feet and one pacing against the rail, waiting for the rain. On the horizon, dark clouds gather like a flock of ravens. The wind blows screaming through the empty fields beyond the house, forcing down the heads of the trees at the edge of the clearing. A jagged flash of lightening, too far away for the crack of thunder to be audible, illuminates the roiling mass of clouds.

The dog at her feet raises his head and gives a low, urgent bark. “Hush, Roger.” Bronwyn reaches down to rub the ugly head. “Hush now.” The dog by the railing, perhaps sensing something she cannot, flicks his ears back and pads over to stand by her chair.

The storm is closer now, the flickers of lightning appearing more often, the growl of thunder rolling against her skin. She rocks back and forth in the old chair, eyes glued to a break in the woods on the edge of the horizon. The rain begins to fall, hot, stinging drops that hiss onto the grass. Bronwyn looks one last time toward the gap in the tree line – invisible now, in the driving rain – and goes into the house.

It has been three days.

The railroad is late.