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It took an hour, but it came. On time, as expected.

Walt let Hollis pull them up from the ground, knees creaking from the cold. Let him walk them down to the embankment, where the dead leaves had gathered in damp fragrant piles next to the steel and the mud squelched beneath their boots.

He pulled himself deep inside to give Hollis control of their arms, their legs, their back, the nervousness in their gut, because Hollis knew this trick. Hollis knew how to react.

He’d keep them safe.

Walt startled at the sound of the whistle.

Hollis brushed two fingers against their palm.

Shh.

Time is relative. It slows and speeds when it wants to. It took a week of waiting as the ground shook and the sweat took a year to drip down the back of their neck.

Come on.

Their bones rattled. Bones Walt loved so dearly, and their teeth hurt more than when they’d been torn apart.

It’s called the Venturi effect. As the air velocity goes up, the static pressure goes down, it pushes things in its vicinity toward the reduced pressure. If you don’t stand far enough away, it will pull you in. That’s why people keep dying.

Hollis spread his legs, kicked one back for stability, and closed their eyes.

The train screamed like a thousand horses and snatched the breath from their lungs. The gaps between cars flashed sunlight like strobe on the backs of their eyelids as they stood.

Walt cried out in terror.

Hollis laughed at the joy of it.

Winning against terrible pressure and the hand of fate. Laughed that he was loved so sweetly by a God that chose him to live, again and again. That the muscles in his legs were strong and his balance was true, and that for once he was being witnessed at the very pinnacle of himself:

A boy versus the relentless march of gravity.

Grand and terrible.

Like Holst’s Jupiter.