Portal

The train doesn't lurch when it moves. It aligns.

Spike moves through the aisle like he was built for it. Schnauzer, silver-gray, conductor's cap sitting a little crooked on his head, brass whistle hanging from a chain around his neck.

"Eastbound," he says when someone finally asks out loud. Voice low, steady, like a timetable that refuses to argue. "Node 7 behind us. Celestial Station still ahead. Everything is on the line."

Spike pauses beside your seat. Doesn't look at you at first. Just stands there, one paw resting lightly on the back of the seat in front, watching the lattice slide by.

"You feel it too," he says quietly. Not a question.

The train keeps moving. You're still on it.