Joseph spent weeks planning the Mile Zero party. The food, the music, the guest list. Most important of all was his grand entrance.

He was supposed to board in High Third, at the Community Gardens, under a domed roof known as the “beehive” because of its pattern of hexagonal glass tiles. The roof was part of the original, commercial version of the train, and it was one of Joseph’s favorite design elements. “Snowpiercer is like a beehive,” he used to say. “You can tell how healthy she is by the hum of the workers.”

From the beehive, Joseph was to walk uptrain to thunderous applause supplied by representatives of the most important guilds: beachmen, breakmen, tunnelmen, jacks and janitors. Finally, he would arrive at the Nightcar, where I’d be waiting with a glass of his favorite scotch.

There was a countdown planned, and a big red button for him to press - which did nothing, of course. That wasn’t the point. Joseph didn’t want to be hidden in the engine when the big moment happened. He wanted to be in the thick of celebration. “I need to hear the buzz,” he said.

Everything was planned to the minute. But then, the riots happened, and Joseph never came.

It was just as well. The merriment he imagined never materialized. People came, music played, alcohol flowed (and other substances, too), but there was no joy. Maybe there would have been if he’d come, but I don’t think so. This was bigger than Joseph Wilford. And nothing was bigger than Joseph Wilford.

I remember the moment the train jolted forward; I felt physical pain. It was like I had string tied to my ribs, and the other end was knotted to the living earth. I was torn from it – from fresh air and oak trees and coffee shops and people playing guitar on street corners. Things I didn’t even know I cared about, but now I knew, they’d sustained me.

I could see it on the faces of the people gathered round– it didn’t matter what class they were from. Everyone was in the same agony.