They caught seven of us jumping off the boxcar when the train pulled in. I don't know how they knew it, but as soon as our feet hit the gravel, strong flashlight beams hit us in the face. I couldn't tell how many there were, but they force marched us into an old railroad yard shack. The dim yellow lighting and foul smell was no more inviting than their yelling at us. They didn't wear uniforms or show us any badges, but right then nobody doubted they were the law. The guns pointed at us were proof enough. I'd heard stories, mostly not good, about railroad police—bulls, they call them. But this was no story.

I've been scared big time before, like that time me and Geri—yeah, I know—Geri and I got into that cave trouble, but never like this. On my own now, this was worse—way worse. I just prayed my shaky knees wouldn't buckle on me, or worse, my bladder betray me.

You could tell the one with the gun was enjoying his catch. With a mean grin, he drawled out, "Now, you 'bos know you can't ride the railroad without a ticket. Any of you 'bos got a ticket?" He liked to play on the word "hobo."

He knew we didn't. Just yankin' us around. He shook his head and waved his gun, meaning he wanted us to line up. Another bull in the shadows kept smacking a long, black club against his thigh. "You deadbeats ought to know the routine by now. Against the wall." He held a big flashlight in the other hand and kept pointing the beam into each of our faces.

We all backed up against the wall, shoulder to shoulder. I didn't know any one in the lineup. I'd only been riding the freight for about two hours when the train stopped here—wherever here was. When I'd jumped on I noticed there were some others in the car, but nobody spoke, which suited me fine. I didn't feel like telling my story.

"Now strip."

I wasn't sure I'd heard right. But the men on either side of me started grumbling and taking off their clothes like they'd lived through this before. Someone started to protest, but he got the end of a club rammed into his stomach. The poor guy went down, gasping, trying to find air. I gasped myself. I could hear my speeding heart beat in my ears. This wasn't what I'd run away for.

"Any one else here think they're privileged?" the bull yelled. He waved his club and his flashlight all along the row of us. Before the flashlight beam reached me, my all-thumbs fingers went to work undressing.

We stood there with all our clothes and whatever packs we carried at our feet. I felt totally helpless standing there naked, not knowing what might happen next. Another bull appeared from nowhere. He started going through our stuff. No sleeping bag, backpack or pocket got left out. The brims of hats, insides of shoes, and even belts got checked. Every time money was found, which wasn't often, it was handed to one of the bulls with a gun.

By the time the yard cop reached my stuff, they'd only collected a few dollars and let us know they weren't too happy about it. I had a twenty, which I thought I'd hidden pretty well in the lining of my jacket. But this guy found it almost like he knew where it was. He looked at me, held the twenty in my face, smiled, then handed it to the other guy. Then he shook out my sleeping bag, went through the pockets of both pairs of jeans, shook out my two shirts, even checked in my rolled-up spare socks and shorts. The photo of my mom fell to the floor and I reached for it.

Before I could get it, he smacked my arm. "Watch it! Stand back," he barked. He gave me a look, picked up the photo, looked, and threw it on the floor again. He tossed aside what little food I had, but took the last of my cigarettes, found my pocketknife and slipped it into his pocket. The guy was an expert on searching. I don't know where I could have hidden anything without it being found. Mostly, I hated to lose my knife, but standing around buck-naked shivering, scared about what could happen next, bothered me a big bunch more.

The collector continued down the line until everything had been searched and all the money found. He nodded to the one with the club.

The clubber started walking down the line. He tapped his club on the shoulder of the first guy in line, still holding his stomach and wheezing, and said, "You stay." He tapped the next man's shoulder. "Get dressed." The next was told to stay.

When he got to me, he tapped me and said, "You stay."

My knees almost folded, and I came close to letting my bladder speak for my fear.

The collector spoke up. "Naw, that one had money. He can get dressed."

I felt the flashlight beam search up and down my naked body..

"Why, he's just a kid," the bull said. "Tall for your age, ain'tcha. How old are you, boy? Fifteen? Sixteen?" He laughed. "You don't even have a good patch of hair between your skinny legs yet." He held his light on me there. I tried to cover myself with my hands. Most helpless, useless feeling in the world, for sure

I didn't know if he really wanted me to answer or not. But I couldn't form a word in my dry mouth if I tried. He smiled, seeing me shaking, mostly from fear, but now from some anger, too, especially with everybody laughing at my expense. Even some of the riders joined in. I felt my face turn hot. Real funny. Ha-ha.

Right then, I wanted to gain ten years and twenty pounds. I'd laugh while I used his stupid club on him. All of them.

He grinned at me. "What's your name, little 'bo?"

I ran my tongue around my teeth, trying to wet my dry mouth. A cracked "Jay" managed to pass my parched lips.

"What say?" He bent his ear toward me like he hadn't heard. He had.

I forced out another "Jay," a little louder.

"Jay, huh? A runaway, I bet." He held the light right on my face. "Shall we turn him in? Maybe there's a re-ward."

I had to close my eyes and turn my head. I didn't answer.

"Fat chance of that," the man with the gun said.

"Well, runaway Jay, get dressed, then. But try to find yourself some better company than these here railroad trespassers. Consider yourself lucky this time."

When he moved to the next one in line, I wasted no time getting my clothes on, though I wasn't sure what to expect next. Were they going to take us to jail? Would they send me back to Allonia? What was going to happen to the ones they told to stay?

"Now listen up. The railroad doesn't run a charity train. It needs to be paid for its services. There's forty-one dollars and some change collected here." He held up the money. "We figure the fare for the last ride comes to ten dollars and fifty cents each. Since you so willingly and graciously pooled your funds for us, there's enough here to cover the fares for the four of you who paid."

Yeah, like the money was going to the railroad. They stole my money and my knife! These guys were thieves!

He put the money in his pocket. "Now beat it, and don't let us catch you again. The railroad has passenger trains if you want to travel. This town don't cotton to deadbeats. Put that in your memory bank."

Still mad about losing my stuff, it took me a minute before I realized I was free to go. The dressed hobos—that's what I'd become—a hobo—beat it out the door. Shoes unlaced, I shoved my stuff in my pack and took off, worried they'd stop me at the door or do something bad.

I heard some protests coming from the ones left behind, then some whacks and pain-like yelling, but I wasn't about to hang around to find out what I imagined was happening to them.

I just took off running fast as I could with untied shoes and a pack. A couple of times I almost tripped in the dark over all the tracks. I didn't see where the other three went and didn't care. No bond held us together. I was alone. A loner.

Like the bull said, "Runaway Jay."

So I ran.