“Pretty face,” the guard says.

            I wipe away some sweat-lined dirt, smile.

            “Occupation?”

            “Nurse.”

            He squints, doubts.

            “Drugs?”

            I shake my head. He doesn’t want what I have – the sleeping pills, marijuana. He wants antibiotics. He has the disease. His hat and collar hide it. What do I care? We are all going to get sick, had all gotten sick, will always be sick.

            “Papers?”

            I hand him the water damaged passbook.

            If he opens it, he’ll mostly see blossoms and blotches. On one page, there may be enough stamp to reveal a cross. The picture will show just shoulders and a neck. The face is white space.

            The train sounds its whistle, bell. Then the wheels clickety, clickety, clack.

            The guard hands the passbook back.

            “Go, Pretty Face. Run.”

            I run. Tell myself, you’re gone, free, refugee. There’s the boxcar’s open door. There’s my foot. There’s the floor.

            I slide, tumble onto the platform.

            I wake. I’m at the guardhouse. This time the guard is looking at the passbook. He sees the cross.

            “Christian?”

            “No,” I manage, “Unbeliever.”

            “Me, too. God’s been such a disappointment.”

            He drops the passbook in the dust.

            His finger strokes a fresh cut on my face.

            I wince.

            I see the disease climb down his shoulder, over his knuckles, onto my lips. It enters.

            The guard takes my hand, caresses it.

– Nan Wigington