New life rushes into my veins. The air is alive and electric, pulsing with preternatural force. I stretch my arms out and feel the energy raise the hair on my skin. With purpose, I set out for the railway station. The Old No. Six pulls in on time. I board and find a seat in one of the Pullmans, first-class luxury.

I’ve never rubbed elbows with high society before. What was once beyond me somehow, now, feels beneath me. An elderly gentleman retiree sits across from me, legs crossed, paper folded. I hum a few bars of an ancient melody that is, at once, strange and familiar. The train leaves.

A tapestry of green and blue whizzes past. The regular click-clack of iron wheels touching iron tracks beats out a mechanical code. The conductor opens the door; I have no ticket. He asks. I start to explain. Then, catching a light in my eye, he relents. “This trip is for old friends,” he explains, “you don’t need a ticket.” A bell rings. I call for the porter.