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I recognized my error within four seconds of jumping onto the freight train.

The physical act of jumping was a beautiful thing, a striding leap made cleanly off the thick chunked rock next to the tracks, my hands wrapping firmly around the rusted iron of the handle running parallel to the opening of the boxcar, my arms pulling the rest of my body and backpack onto the damp wooden floor, my feet weightless, my mind free.

The physical act of jumping was a beautiful thing. The two men standing in the shadows of the far corner were not beautiful things.

 

 

 

Ross White currently lives in Brooklyn, NY and most recently worked as a grant writer for a free medical clinic. Prior to that he was a freelance writer and journalist in Illinois.

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