Noon straightened up to hand his pass to the inspector. After scanning the QC code, the railway official handed the document back and smiled sheepishly. Reylson wondered, and assumed, that the ticket inspector he’d been exchanging pleasantries with for the last four years had seen the news report that morning.

From the inspector, Noon’s attention switched to the cab. There were two drivers in there, and both looked back at the well-dressed young man with a sombre sort of nod. “I guess everybody knows,” Reylson mouthed to himself; his whisper-quiet words were masked by the clickity clack of the rails. He felt like the train, glued to the tracks no matter what. That’s when his empathy kicked in and he realised their attention was a salute to solidarity rather than raw pity—the Ayenee Capital City Rail Link had also announced impending cuts.

“Jeez,” he mumbled, “I guess the whole city is in decline.”