Last Stop
When I was a boy, I always rode the train with my father. We were beggars. I would work the back of the train; my father would work the front. When we finished, we’d meet in the middle and get off at Bristol. It was how we made a living.
I arrived at the center of the train one day, my father nowhere to be seen. I heard a yell from the platform outside. Looking out I saw my father being carried away by men in blue uniforms. Before I could run after him, the whistle blew.
“Next stop, Bristol!”