She's rolling her own now, says he with a wink and a nod. The taste of tobacco is sour and sweet, yellow and thick. Beneath me the railroad ties swim thrumming in metal rhythm. There's the swaying and the jittering, the way the body jiggles on its bones like leaves on a branch. With identity comes responsibility. I was smoking Danny's cigarettes there for awhile, watching his dry fingers roll those crumbling brown tendrils into white gossamer folds. Those favors weren't for nothing. The gifts of food and smoke were burnt up like sacrifices, sacrifices granting possession body and soul. So that he'd touch when he wanted, take his fill and then leave off.

Some days it weren't half bad. The wheat-grass swinging by in sweeping golden strokes, and the rail-car bumping along its never-ending journey. The sun dolloping orange-warm dumplings everywhere, generous like a gambler in the thrilling smile of good fortune. Danny'd take his, thank me even. Say I was pretty, maybe. A warm touch and a simple caress. Canned foods when there was some. Rolled cigarettes when there weren't. Tokens of affection.

But then some days he'd take when there weren't nothin' to give. His gaze full and wanting, his breath hot with need. He didn't ask because he didn't have to. Like I was something to be used up. Sometimes he'd dig his fingers in me. Blunt and blindly groping, like frenzied moles in pungent, sour earth, gnashing their teeth. Sometimes he'd apologize after, say he didn't mean to take it so rough. Sometimes.

Other riders joined us off and on. Carrying their packs and engaged in journeys of their own. They hop on when the train slows a little, make their acquaintance before they take their leave. They saw or they didn't, but they came and went just the same. It'd make 'em uncomfortable if they saw, maybe scared a little. They'd pay tribute, the ones that understood. Like Danny was taxing 'em just for knowing, lettin' 'em buy their way out of shameful intrusion. Clothes. Food. Cigarettes. Money. A gold ring, once. Everything direct to Danny of course, but from him they trickled to me in pieces.

Then there was someone who wasn't like the rest. He saw, alright, but he wasn't scared. And when he gave it weren't payment, it was gifts.

Breakfast cereal in a single serving package. A wax-papered envelope inside the cardboard carapace. Sweet and crunchy like a new morning, gift-wrapped twice. Even milk, the kind in the box. The flakes so sugary like nothing else since. I couldv'e eaten 'em forever.

The newcomer gave 'em to Danny at first, and watched with interest as Danny appropriated. But after that he handed 'em direct to me, smiling profusely at my relish. Only so happy he could provide. The pleasure was all his.

His looks weren't prying, neither. They didn't crawl around the fertile curves of my flesh, scuttling like bugs looking for somewhere to sleep and procreate. He peered deep. Through my eyes direct and into I don't what. I ate six maybe seven little boxes. The milk sweetened with sugar, and running down my lip. And he handed them to me one after the other, letting Danny sit anxiously deposed, jealous of that power to give to me.

Then the newcomer smoked and he saw that I wanted. Danny saw too, saw the weakness, the want. Produced his little sack of tobacco to engender that dependence, that craven sense of need. He'd rolled it complete and smoked it half before he asked me, knowing of course, that I was his in the answer: Do you want one? Do you want me to roll you one?

Before I could talk the newcomer handed me a brand new pouch, in a plastic envelope whose gloss betrayed its freshness. Complete with papers, maybe one hundred in that little package. I fingered the bag eagerly. Fondled its newness, its mine-ness with a lusty yearning. The stranger looked knowingly at Danny. A cool look. Empowered, like a great body of deep, placid water.

She can't roll says Danny, sneering. Tossing that at the stranger wildly; recklessly and hastily parrying a blow, eager and brazen in a hollow taste of victory that's draining, draining fast. Then feeling uncertain under that cool gaze. Understanding the stranger's intention: his gifts to me as a lark, a bluff. The lesser of two feet, the other of which is still to drop. Danny knowing suddenly what was still to be given me. And the power, the possession, all of it came flowing out of him without ceremony like blood from a slaughtered goose. He was pale then, seeing the fullness of the stranger's move, his potent gift of change, before even I did.

And me with the pouch in my hand, wanting that yellow smoke and letting that dependence just ooze. That neediness loud and wet like I'm asking someone to help me. To possess me. I see it in myself a sudden, but before I can flush in shameful realization, before I can cast my eyes down in regret, the stranger looks at me stern and says:

You can do it, cain't ye? Done seen your pal there do it a million times before ain't ye? If he is yer pal.

And so my fingers go at it clumsy at first, but then informed with that alien, sleepy knowledge of observation. When the cigarette is rolled, fat and round like a gorged white grub, he gives me a lighter. Holds his hand up palm out, signifying it's mine to keep.

The taste of tobacco is sour and sweet, yellow and thick. It crackles in delicious dry inhalation, consumes itself in orange heat. The sun flushes in today warm and generous. Flashing in stills through the canopy of trees washing by outside. The rail-car going bump, bump scrape down the line.

Danny sets quiet in his corner. The rail-car keeps on bouncing under us in its cacophonous harmony. Singing those throaty, clanking notes of metal-on-wood predestination.

When the car slows down the stranger gathers his things, getting ready to take his leave. Danny's glances steal out, furtive and embarrassed, grasping and greedy from under their raw, swollen lids. The stranger prods Danny with his foot, watches him lurch into alertness.

This ere's your stop, too, ain't it boy?

Danny's quiet and scared a little. And maybe I'm scared too: that confidence tenuous and trembling, a brittle, delicate baby bird groping towards the edge of the nest. Yearning for that rapturous leap of faith, where bondage falls away so easily like chaff in the breeze. Melts away honestly like wax in the warm regard of the glowing sun. Scales from eyes.

This ere's your stop, now, y'hear me? He's nudging Danny coarsely with his booted foot. Focusing Danny's attention. Making sure his message takes.

She's rolling her own now, he says with a wink and a nod.

And I blaze that freedom in the smoldering, black coal of my eyes. Glaring that defiance full on Danny. My body being mine and mine alone. Don't need no presents. Don't need no nothin. Not from you, not from nobody.

And the car's bumping slow and the stranger hefts his pack, barks at Danny one last time.

This here's yer stop, ey fella?

Reckon it is, says Danny, eyes down.

And he slides off into the dry grass, rolls grunting with the impact. And that's that. No more Danny.