Tales Of Corwin

The train eased to a stop at the Corwin station that Friday night, but John Quick didn’t move. Or couldn’t move. He continued staring blankly down the aisle. Most of his brain was on hold, and the anodyne on-hold music that seemed to be playing in it was a bit annoying. Not quite annoying enough to do anything about, however. In the working corner of his brain, he wasn’t at all sure that coming back to Corwin was a good idea anyway. Maybe at some later stop, he’d have a better plan. Maybe Chicago. “Sir? This is your stop, isn’t it?” That was a conductor. He pulled his gaze away from the middle distance—with a great effort—and tried to focus on the stout woman in uniform. “Um … yes … Corwin,” he managed to say. His voice didn’t seem to be working too well. “Are you all right, sir? Do you need some help?” No, he didn’t want help. To avoid being helped by someone, he would make an effort. “No, thanks,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’m fine. Just tired, is all. Sleeping with my eyes open, I guess.” Well,