Chapter 7: The Final Stretch

I reclined my seat and rested a bit. During that time, the man woke up, saw my seat was reclined, but said nothing.

He gave me a look—half annoyed, half resigned—but didn’t say a word. Maybe he was too groggy, or maybe he’d finally run out of fight.

I secretly wondered—maybe the worst had passed, maybe we understood each other a bit now?

I held my breath, waiting for a sign that the truce would hold. For a moment, I let myself hope.

But I was giving him too much credit.

The universe, it seemed, wasn’t done with us yet. I kept one eye open, just in case.

The man went to the restroom. Just as I was feeling hungry, I started making some instant mac and cheese.

I pulled out my travel mug, the blue one with the Marine Corps sticker, and took it to the cafe car for hot water. The familiar smell of powdered cheese and pasta was oddly comforting—a taste of home, of dorm rooms and barracks and late-night cravings.

Anyone who’s made instant mac and cheese on the train knows: you first fill half a cup of hot water, then carry it back to your seat and add the cheese powder. That’s the safest way.

Balancing the cup as the train rocked over the tracks, I made sure to pour slowly, stirring with a plastic fork. There’s a kind of ritual in it, something steadying in the middle of chaos.

But as I was carefully adding the cheese, I didn’t notice the man returning from the restroom.

His footsteps were heavy, purposeful. I kept my eyes on my food, hoping maybe, just maybe, I could eat in peace.

He suddenly plopped down in front of me, slammed his seat back hard, and cursed, "You..."

The tray shook, my mac and cheese nearly flying off the table. His face twisted in anger, another storm brewing. I clenched my fork, bracing myself, thinking: I stared at my trembling cup of mac and cheese, the fork still in my hand. Only a few more hours, I told myself. But in America, even a train ride home can turn into a battlefield.