Tuesday's my last run. I pull into Westbrook at 11:47, same as I have every Tuesday for nine years. Platform's empty. It's always empty out here. I do my walk-through, kill the cabin lights, step back onto the concrete to lock the service gate. Thirty seconds. Maybe forty. And there's a wheelchair sitting in the middle of the platform. Facing the tracks. Brakes locked. There's a folded blanket on the seat. Still warm when I touched it. No footprints in the salt. Nothing on the cameras. And then, behind me, I heard the wheels start to turn.