The new guy didn't know. He was young, and there was still some spark left in him, which made it hard, but it had to be.
Truce. That's the one rule behind the train station everyone tells you about. The badly insulated wall of the boiler room keeps the cold bearable, and the roof is tight enough to keep you dry, so we huddle up and endure each other, and get drunk, and sometimes forget who we are and laugh.
The other rule, the one that is only whispered about, the one that is arguably more important, is: No one gets on the midnight train. When you ask why you get looks or shrugs but nothing else, maybe you learn its nickname: the fright train. We're a clever bunch like that.
And then there's the unspoken rule. The rule you learn by shutting up and watching long enough. Someone has to get on the midnight train. Sometimes. When we get too friendly, when we share our food and booze with someone new, you chip in. You offer a snack or some weed, and let us do the talking.
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