On the edge of town there’s an old trail, through Martin Street School grounds out by the CN Rail. It’s where my brother hung out, but I couldn’t get up my nerve to meet older boys stinging themselves with nettle, looking tough in oversized shirts. They looked primed to hurt, their bikes like boats on unforgiving shoals, bodies dashing upon the dirt. And I guess I heard all about the train tracks, and how Ryan saw some kid sitting on them cross-legged waiting for that train: and when I picture it, he’s calm and serene, and it falls silent. Or maybe Ry finds it in himself to yell. And kids would say he was never quite the same after that – even though he denied it when I finally got up my courage to ask. It kinda made sense, like he just got cut down in his prime, with all that potential but he just turned out beautiful and wild.