There were no windows on my train to Moscow.

To be fair, it wasn't a passenger train.

They booked my trip with zero planning and no budget, so I got what I paid for.

A cold war aerocolf raider, eight, huge blocky wagons behind the locomotive at the front,

and the caboose where I slept in the back.

Bound to be an adventured ennui-rate.

When I met Sergei and the main driver, something went wrong.

He smiled at me with almost no emotion.

His eyes hardly moved and his posture stayed slumped.

Just a flash of teeth before he resettled into his chair.

He called out to me over his shoulder in a thick Russian accent as I leapt down into the snow.

He'd a cabin on table.

Trip is five days, food uncovered, good night.

Spazibah?

I started back.

He snorted in my bad Russian.

Probably the first time he laughed in years, seemed.

I never got to meet the other drivers.

The ice snapped under my feet.

I waddled, clutching my bag to my chest towards the end of the train.

I've never been this close to a freight train, but the wagons appeared oddly huge,

like way too heavy and tall for what they were meant for.

...