"Have you ever been on a train?" she asked.

"Does the subway and the night I was conceived count?"

She smiled, then gently told me, "I love train rides."

"What about them?"

"Wiley, my granddad, he used to take me on trips when we lived in Georgia. I guess they remind me of him. He used to tell me he owned a railroad and that there was a man who came to him one day and paid off all his debt to the government if he could marry his daughter, but he refused because he didn't want to give up his business so that the government could claim his land and turn it into a another highway."

"This is Timothy's father?" I asked.

"No. My mom's dad."

"He's still alive?"

She frowned. "I don't know. I haven't seen or talked to him since we moved to New York."

"You're not allowed to talk to your own grandfather?" I scoffed.

"I didn't see him much," she said quietly. "And the times he did come around weren't very good . . . for Timothy. He didn't like hearing about my mom, and that's all my granddad wanted to talk about most of the time. I think that's why he moved us here. It's nothing like what life was for him with her. Where there were fields, we have concrete. Quietness is now never ending noise. Slow moving people in a small town where everyone knew he was Dr. Brighton raising "that girl" who lost "his wife" has been replaced by a stone wall that no one can penetrate to learn of his secrets. Not even when he waves them in front of a class and threatens them with a passing grade to figure them out."

We drove silently until I reached a red light.

I took her hand and said, "In some ways you're still like a little girl, Everly Anne; so innocent to so many things. But then in other ways, you have this soulfulness that leaves me awestruck."

She glanced away, and tried to change the subject. "I wondered about what he told everyone about me, when I wasn't in class. Did he say I died?"

"He didn't say anything, actually." I replied. "And when I asked him, his only reply was forcing me to endure a cadaver dissection."

"How is that a bad thing? Students beg for that chance."

"Not this student," I laughed.

She smiled, but looked toward the window. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, dug around in a dead man's back for you, Topolina. Played with his kidneys. Won't find too many men so brave. Keep that in mind."

She looked back at me. "How many times did you nearly barf, Brave Man?"

"I don't want to spend my time with you discussing dead bodies and puke. Tell me something you did when we were apart. Show me your smile, Everly Anne."

She smiled. "I went to church."

"Where do you attend? Maybe I could pick you up one Sunday after service."

"You wouldn't go with me to church?"

I made a right turn. "You know I have issues with religion."

"This might come as a surprise, but so do I," she said.

"Sorry, I thought you said you went to church."

Everly sighed. "Sometimes you have very glib definitions of things, Callum Andrew. It's my number two pet peeve."

I laughed. "I have a very good idea what number one might be."

"Yeah, being a doctor dims a little of your shine, but it's okay, I'm still hopeful I can fix that."

"I like being a doctor," I lied, "but good luck with your polishing, Everly."

"I don't want you to quit being a doctor. I want you to be the right kind of doctor."

I glanced at her. "Can we go back to your non-religious church going experiences? I'm very interested in knowing how a person who doesn't believe in God tolerates being preached to about God."

"I do believe in God. I believe in God wholeheartedly. I just don't ascribe to any particular belief system."