Carriage Five, Disconnected

“Another four hours, at least,” Cass mumbled, her voice rough, more of a growl from the depths of her hoodie. She kicked at a loose floor tile with the toe of her worn combat boot, the sound a dull, pathetic thud against the station’s relentless murmur. “That’s what the lady said. Minimum. My phone’s nearly dead.”

I watched the digital clock above the main departure board, its red numbers seeming to mock us with their slow, deliberate march. It had been seven hours already. Seven hours of listening to announcements that always seemed to double the waiting time. My bum had gone numb on the hard plastic seat, then stiff, then just… resigned. I was ten, nearly eleven, and this was not how Christmas was supposed to start. Christmas was supposed to start with the train pulling away, the city lights shrinking into festive pinpricks, not with us staring at a departure board that was less a schedule and more a testament to nature’s stubborn refusal.

“She also said ‘dozens of hours’ yesterday for the northern line,” I pointed out, trying to sound helpful, which mostly just made Cass sigh dramatically. Her blonde hair, usually tied up in a neat bun, was escaping in damp tendrils around her face, plastered there by a combination of the station’s oppressive heat and the blizzard we’d apparently driven through to get here. Or rather, been driven through. Aunt Barb had been at the wheel, gripping it so hard her knuckles had been white, her usual calm replaced by a stressed frown. I’d thought the driving was the worst part, but now I knew better.

The Perils of Prairie Travel

Uncle Sid, a man whose cheerfulness could usually power a small village, cleared his throat from two rows down. “Alright, everyone! Who wants a game of eye-spy? Or perhaps… who can find the most interesting hat?” He gestured vaguely at the sea of heads. Nobody answered. Lennie, my younger brother, was trying to eat the lint off Aunt Barb’s coat sleeve, a mission she was blissfully unaware of as she scrolled through her phone, probably searching for any sign of a miracle train. Grandma Sylvie, bless her, was knitting, her needles clicking a rhythmic, soothing counterpoint to the station’s low drone. She looked like a tiny island of calm in a sea of agitated humanity.

“I want a cookie,” Lennie announced, abruptly abandoning the lint to yank at Aunt Barb’s arm. His voice, high-pitched and demanding, cut through the air. “The big ones. With the sprinkles.”

Aunt Barb jumped, nearly dropping her phone. “Lennie! No, darling. We don’t know when we’ll be boarding. We need to conserve our emergency rations.” Her voice was tight. Our ‘emergency rations’ consisted of two slightly squashed croissants and a bag of grapes that were probably past their prime. It wasn’t exactly an arctic expedition, but the way she said it, you’d think we were preparing for a trek across the barren tundra.

“Conserve?” Uncle Sid boomed, ever the optimist. “Barb, my dear, we’re in a train station, not a bunker. I spotted a Tim Hortons earlier, the siren song of coffee and donuts is calling my name. Who’s for a reconnaissance mission?” He winked at me, his bushy eyebrows dancing. I tried to wink back, but it probably just looked like I had something stuck in my eye.

Cass rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. “You’ll be gone for an hour, Uncle Sid. The queue is horrendous. I saw a man gnaw on his own umbrella out of desperation.”

“Exaggeration, Cass, is the spice of life!” Uncle Sid declared, pulling himself up from the seat with a groan that suggested his knees were not as enthusiastic about reconnaissance as he was. “Trevor, Lennie, you two are my elite scouting party. We shall navigate the throngs and secure provisions!”

Lennie, who had been on the verge of a full-blown cookie-deprivation meltdown, suddenly brightened. “Tim Hortons? With donuts?” He scrambled off the seat, nearly tripping over a sleeping man’s outstretched foot. I had to grab his arm, my palm scraping against his cold jacket zipper. His small hand was surprisingly sweaty.

Aunt Barb let out a long-suffering sigh. “Just don’t get lost, you three. And only one donut each, Lennie. And Sid, please, try to be sensible.” Sensible wasn’t exactly Uncle Sid’s forte, especially when faced with the combined forces of boredom and a blizzard-induced captive audience.

Of Sticky Fingers and Stale Air

The ‘reconnaissance mission’ was less heroic charge, more trudging through a human obstacle course. Every seat in the station seemed occupied, every patch of floor claimed by someone sprawled on a sleeping bag or a flimsy blanket. Kids, younger than Lennie, were crying. Older kids were glued to their phones, headphones on, trying to block out the shared misery. The air conditioning, if it even existed, was fighting a losing battle against the collective body heat. It smelled like old socks and anxiety.

Uncle Sid, however, was in his element. He greeted strangers, offered unsolicited advice about the best routes to the coffee counter, and even managed to coax a small laugh out of a lady who had been glaring daggers at the departure board for the last half-hour. He was like a walking, talking distraction, which, I figured, was his superpower.

Lennie, meanwhile, was a human ferret, weaving between legs, occasionally letting out a triumphant yelp when he spotted a discarded wrapper or a dropped coin. He kept trying to poke people’s luggage with a twig he’d found, which I had to confiscate before he accidentally triggered an international incident.

“Stay close, you two,” Uncle Sid commanded, his voice muffled by the growing noise. “This is a jungle out here! We’ll need our wits about us to secure the prized sugar rings.”

The queue for Tim Hortons was indeed a beast. It snaked like a tired python, disgorging weary, caffeinated passengers at one end and swallowing fresh, hopeful ones at the other. We stood there for what felt like an entire hockey game, slowly inching forward. My feet started to ache, and my legs felt like wobbly noodles. I watched a woman in front of us argue passionately about a loyalty card, her voice rising to a frantic pitch. Nobody seemed to care. Everyone just wanted their coffee.

When we finally made it to the counter, Lennie, overstimulated by the sugar-and-caffeine-fueled chaos, ordered a double-chocolate donut with extra sprinkles, a hot chocolate with whipped cream, and then, completely out of the blue, a cheese stick. The cashier, a tired teenager with a faint moustache, just blinked at him. Uncle Sid, of course, paid for it all with a flourish, declaring it ‘essential morale boosting’. I chose a plain glazed donut and a small apple juice, trying to appear mature, even though I secretly wanted Lennie’s ridiculous order.

Finding our way back to our little family island was even harder than the journey out. We had to backtrack twice, squeezing past a family with three enormous suitcases and a cat in a carrier that looked suspiciously like it was plotting an escape. I nearly lost Lennie at one point, his small, sugar-fueled body disappearing into a cluster of hockey fans, only to reappear moments later, donut crumbs already dusting his chin, a triumphant grin on his face. His hot chocolate sloshed precariously.

When we finally re-joined Cass, Aunt Barb, and Grandma Sylvie, the scene had shifted slightly. Cass had given up on her phone and was now drawing elaborate, fantastical creatures in a small notebook, her brow furrowed in concentration. Aunt Barb was slumped, head back against the wall, eyes closed, a picture of quiet defeat. Grandma Sylvie, however, was still knitting, a tiny blue mitten taking shape between her practiced fingers.

Lennie shoved his sticky donut wrapper into my hand. “It was the best donut ever!” he declared, a chocolate smear on his cheek. “Can we go again?”

“No, Lennie,” Aunt Barb mumbled, without opening her eyes. “No, we cannot.”

A Different Kind of Journey

Hours blurred into an indistinguishable mass. The announcements became more infrequent, the promises vaguer. My mind, usually a whirlwind of imaginary battles and superhero plots, started to feel… mushy. I watched other families. A dad trying to teach his daughter chess with bottle caps. A group of teenagers playing cards, their laughter echoing hollowly. A lone man, wrapped in a threadbare blanket, staring out at the blizzard as if searching for answers in the swirling snow.

“He’s looking for the future, perhaps,” Grandma Sylvie said softly beside me, her voice a gentle rasp. I hadn’t realised she was watching him too. I turned to her, a little startled.

“The future?” I repeated, my brain still a bit fuzzy from the boredom. “Like, when the train leaves?”

She chuckled, a dry, rustling sound like leaves skittering across ice. “Oh, much more than that, dear one. He’s looking for purpose in the unexpected. The world is full of twists, like this weather. And sometimes, the longest waits teach us the most important lessons.” Her needles clicked, a steady, patient rhythm. The blue mitten was almost complete. It looked far too small for anyone I knew.

“What lessons?” I asked, genuinely curious. My own lessons mostly involved how many times Lennie could say ‘are we there yet?’ before Aunt Barb threatened to tie him to the luggage rack.

Grandma Sylvie paused, her gaze distant, fixed somewhere beyond the grime-streaked windows. “That even when you’re standing still, you’re still moving. You’re learning patience. You’re learning to find the humour in the ridiculous. You’re learning… how much you miss the quiet of your own home, perhaps.” She looked at me, a tiny smile playing on her lips. “And that sometimes, the journey isn’t about the destination at all. It’s about who you’re stuck with.” She patted my knee, a small, warm pressure through my jeans.

I thought about that for a long time. Stuck with Uncle Sid’s booming voice, Aunt Barb’s worried sighs, Cass’s dramatic eye-rolls, and Lennie’s endless energy. It wasn’t exactly an adventure, but it certainly wasn’t boring. Not completely. The cold outside seemed to intensify as dusk began to fall, painting the terminal windows in shades of bruised purple and grey. The station lights, once cheerful, now cast long, unsettling shadows that danced with the occasional frantic flutter of a stray pigeon.

A Deepening Chill

Later, much later, when my eyes felt gritty and Lennie had finally collapsed in a heap on Aunt Barb’s lap, emitting soft snores, another announcement crackled over the PA system. The voice was tired, flat, devoid of its earlier, falsely optimistic tone. The words were mostly the same, about severe weather, about crew availability, about the unprecedented nature of the delays. But then came a new phrase, one that made my stomach clench.

“...alternative arrangements are currently being explored for passenger comfort and safety due to the anticipated extended closure of northern routes… passengers are advised to consider…”

Aunt Barb sat bolt upright, Lennie nearly tumbling off her. “Extended closure? What does that mean?” she whispered, her voice tight with a fresh wave of panic. Uncle Sid, who had been trying to teach Cass a complicated card trick with an old deck, stopped mid-deal. Even Grandma Sylvie’s knitting needles paused, the unfinished blue mitten hanging limp in her hands. The lone man by the window, still gazing out into the white abyss, shifted his weight. The swirling snow outside pressed against the glass, relentless, unforgiving. And I knew, with a certainty that settled cold in my bones, that ‘alternative arrangements’ was never a good sign, especially when uttered in a voice so drained of hope. The world outside, the one we were supposed to be leaving behind, felt like it was pressing in, a thick, suffocating blanket of white, and for the first time, it didn’t feel funny anymore.

The train, our Christmas train, was not just late. It was… something else entirely. Something far more complicated and far less cheerful than a few dozen hours of waiting.

The departure board, which had been a static red for so long, suddenly flickered. A new message appeared beneath our train number. Not a time. A word. ‘CANCELLED’.

The single word pulsed, red and stark, against the dark screen, like a warning, or perhaps, a threat. And the blizzard outside, with its furious, unceasing howl, seemed to answer.