But there was no luggage rack above. Just the smooth, riveted metal of the train’s roof.

Arthur’s smile cracked. His skin flaked like burnt paper. Behind him, the other passengers began to fade—not into nothing, but into real people again. The woman in 6D blinked, her throat whole. The man in 6B groaned and rubbed his neck.

Arthur turned. His eyes were the color of wet slate. “That’s not footsteps,” he said, his voice a dry rasp. “That’s counting.”