There were tracks in our backyard, overgrown with weeds, and Papa said they hadn't been used in years. Sometimes, though, I would hear it. It would start with a distant rumble, like the smallest thunderstorm, though the sky would be clear of clouds. The rumble would increase to a steady pounding, closer and louder until I could see it. Its black metal body glistened in the moonlight, carried forward on wheels wider than I was tall. Thick white smoke streamed from its chimney, spreading mist across the backyard. If I was outside when the train came, I would hurry up to my room and slam the door. The whistle pierced my nightmares, making me tremble from head to toe and pull all the sheets off of my bed. Papa and Daddy could never understand what I was so afraid of. No one but me could ever see or hear the train.