Day 7, Tuesday, early A.M.
Boyd still couldn’t decide if the report he’d made at the local police station would go anywhere, or how well it had gone over. But it was one a.m., the lights outside the train were flashing by in a constant pattern that Boyd’s exhausted mind kept changing its opinion on: soothing, nauseating, calming, annoying. And to make matters worse, a glance down at his watch confirmed that Boyd was still at least an hour away from the Syracuse train station. Too many hours had been lost to police stations, bus stations, and train stations. He was tired. And he was going home. And that didn’t feel like a bad thing in the least. Lonely, yes, but not bad.
