Rye and Tim ride the rails every night. They hook on just as the sky burns that orange-twilight, at the exit of the Queller tunnel. Once clear of the city, it’s just them on top of the cars, the stars brilliant over the endless wastes.
“Here,” says Rye, and passes Tim the bottle of bathtub absinthe.
“You have to stop making this.”
“Don’t worry about it.” The car sways on the magnarail beneath them. “I only blew up my room the once.”
They ride the rails and hit the bottle and meet the Green Fairy over the Black Dunes.