The American

The memories buried deep in Amy's subconscious played like movies. Children's laughter traveled through her dreams as warped and distant echoes. She was in the middle of a food fight when she awoke with a start. But it wasn't a food fight. Mischievous little ones were throwing paper at her from over there. Snickering, the children ducked down behind their seats. She couldn't be bothered to scold them. An immense pain was throbbing in her skull. Instinctively, her fingers investigated the wound on her head. Her short red hair felt matted. How did that get there, she wondered?

More confusing than the cut on her head was where she sat. From the corner of her eye, lush green trees whipped by her window. Her hand slowly dropped to the side as she turned to look. They sped along a steep mountainside as fast as trains could go. Pressing her face and hands against the glass, she waited for any hint of where the train was going—a river, a tunnel. But no signs came.

The last thing she could remember was nothing. Amy slumped back into her seat. With the interest of a newborn discovering their hands, Amy noticed her clothes—an oversized blue flannel draped her small frame. Threadbare and covered in splatters of red, it told the story of a struggle. Is that...my blood? She muttered to herself. Amy was sure of something; these were not her clothes, and her pockets were as empty as her stomach.

Lying at her feet were a few crumpled pieces of paper. With crimson-stained fingers, she picked them up. The first was a strange magazine ad. She placed it on the empty seat beside her without a second thought. The second was an article. She lingered this time. Quite sure she had a concussion, Amy did not trust the words on the page. Clamping her eyes shut, she took a deep breath. But when she opened her eyes, the print was still in an unfamiliar language.

Amy's heart rose to her throat. Panic swept her away. What do I do, she uttered over and over. Before she knew it, tears were streaming down her face. Her eyes darted around the railcar for anything familiar when the conductor stepped in her peripheral.

"Billett." His hand waited for a ticket without even a glance in her direction. Her gaze slowly moved upward to the tip of his cap. It nearly touched the roof of the car. He was the largest man she had ever seen. Terrified, all she could hear was the drumming of her heartbeat. Shoving the article into her pocket, she began formulating her cover story.

That was when she noticed him- three rows back, on the opposite side of the aisle. He wore a pair of Oakley sunglasses and sipped out of a to-go cup. An American, she thought. The conductor asked for her ticket again. His voice was distant and muffled. The American could help her if she could find some different clothes. Annoyed, the conductor shouted, "Din billett!"

Shocked by his tone, Amy snapped out of it. He towered over her in glorious size. Stammering, she shamefully confessed, "I seemed to have lost my ticket." The conductor noticed her disheveled state for the first time since their interaction had begun. He took a step back with a hesitant look around before focusing on her again. After several moments of silence, she asked if he spoke English. Dumbfounded, the man nodded.

"What's your name?" The words hung there, not wanting to be heard.

"I'm Dag." He finally said in an indiscernible accent.

"Good. Hi, Dag. I'm…" Quickly, what's the name of the article? "I'm... I'm Nora." Amy moved closer and whispered, "Dag, I need your help." Patiently, she sat there waiting for an answer. He fixated on her before gently motioning to come with him.

They made their way through the train car and even the next. They passed row after row of curious travelers. Whispers about her filled the air in a language she couldn't understand. Amy watched their horrified faces as she passed by. She didn't see a familiar face or have an inkling of a memory. Eventually, they crossed into a dark car with a skinny hallway.

Amy followed him skeptically. About halfway, they stopped. He dug into his pocket for keys, revealing a bull tattoo on his wrist. Amy felt a pang of familiarity, but the memory dissipated when the door slid open, flooding their faces with sunlight. An empty sleeping car with the shades drawn! Stepping out of the way, he motioned for her to enter. Amy smiled at him sweetly and crossed the threshold. As she turned to shower him with gratitude, he slammed the door shut, locking it from the other side!

Amy pounded on the door to no avail. She shouted his name and pleaded for answers, but Dag never spoke another word. Intense and overwhelming fear washed over her. Terror set in as Amy fell silent and to her knees. Amy didn't know what to do until she heard another man's voice from the other side. The sound of his voice hit her like a brick wall. Time froze as memories of him flooded her mind. She wasn't the only one in danger. The American was after all of them.