I'm supposed to be reading Jane Eyre but my brain is somewhere else- "somewhere else" being a dilapidated bedroom with a mattress on the floor and a cross hung over the dresser while a train rumbles by outside the window. My overactive imagination whispers in my ear that it's the train to hell and goes to say something else, but it's drowned out by the train's deafening whistle. When the train passes, I'll lace up my boots and stumble through the mud and tall grass outside, hoping I fall in a ditch and somebody rescues me, making me finally believe I'm loved.