They rode the rest of the way in silence. The Senior focused on the lack of scenery flying past the windows: lights moving past fast enough to barely register as streaks in groups of two or three only to be replaced by a new group of lights and brief splashes of graffitti, none sharp enonugh to know anything about them other than the simple idea that they were there. The Senior's thoughts turned to permenance.
I shouldn't be here, he told himself. When I walked out it was the right thing, and she was a big girl. I didn't leave her, not just her, it wasn't personal.
He'd nearly jumped at his change to come back, he argued with himself, it was like being asked to come back home. And he'd left--
"Sir," said Kit, "We're here."
As the Senior stood, he glanced around the train. He could see to the other end of the train car and he had a view of the locked door near his end. His hands weren't in his pockets, one was, in fact, behind him, hanging at his back where his knife wasn't anymore, he realized. He hadn't carried since he left the group.
"Sir?" Kit asked, holding the door.
The Senior said nothing and walked out of the train, heading for the stairs.
The station was as crowded as could be expected given the time of day.
"Let's go," he said over his shoulder.
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