Emerson walked in two-inch strides across the concrete, following a woman wielding a white fan. Bleats of train whistles blanketed the station. Pungent perfume and burning coal and dusty brushes attacked his nose. In the height of the day traffic he could walk three steps without hitting a body. He fixed his brown earflap hat which dangled whenever he made a slight flinch, simultaneously watching the woman and train which lay in front of him. He thought of what treasure this woman carried: gold bracelets, diamonds, pearls. And how much meat the butcher could weigh from that value.
Emerson walked in two-inch strides across concrete, following
"Boy, take a paper," said a newsboy, tossing Emerson the Monday paper. Before he could open it he stared at him, an ash-haired boy with a nonchalant countenance which branded him as well acquainted with hustle and bustle behavior of citizens.
He grasped the paper in his hands, sudden winds lashing out as if helping him not to get distracted. Emerson peeked at the woman, going this favored direction. He had twice been
to a place called Liverpool, where the woman checked for her ticket. Once to transfer to his third home, another because he missed his train to Prescot. Nevertheless mistakes always led him to Liverpool. Emerson hurried along, newspaper flapping like a sail. In front of him jingling gold bracelets stunned him, bringing him on a doomed quest. He never had a taste for gold, he didn't know why men and women loved it so much; why it was worth a ton of money; why men could kill their wives for it. Emerson saw food and water and shelter. He saw the ticket for what he thought was behind a glass case and worshipped as a civilized person's necessity. He wanted those things.
    But all failed. Emerson became so entranced with this bracelet he forgot about Liverpool. As he sat down to rest on a bench, the woman disappeared. He forgot that the bracelet was attached to a moving object. He slapped his forehead. What a moron he was. Now he could see why husbands murdered their wives for gold. They saw nothing except what they wanted, and that is their entire goal in life. Their destiny to attain. No love, no other things. Just gold. As Emerson became lost in thought, the train gave a whistle and a hiss. Air forced out of his lungs, leaping from the bench, losing his newspaper in the process. The crowd pushed against his tiny body, leaving Emerson powerless. No matter how many times he tried to push deeper into the crowd, angry people pushed him back where the bench was. He growled, attempting to scour for another route, but work traffic had descended to its full peak. He couldn't see a foot in front of him, like he was treading through Scottish snow. He felt saliva dribble away from the back of his mouth, becoming so dry sand could fall out. As he continued to beat against the crowd current, the train began to hiss and squeak its wheels. Emerson panicked. His eyes followed as the train flew by the platform, past platform 3, platform 2, platform 1... Until it disappeared altogether.
    He found the bench again, covering his eyes with his hat so he couldn't catch disgusted stares from citizens. His chapped hands floated onto his forehead, a throbbing in his head from excessive physical exertion catching up to him. What would happen now? This was the end. The nylon cord he had been holding on to was cut. Soon he would have to walk back to his home, or fifth home, and tell the Figure he had failed his mission. What would the Figure reply? Would he say nothing, wasting no breath to toss him into the bed of his truck to hurl him into the Channel? After all, the Figure cared for him, gave him food and water and shelter, in exchange for Emerson's services. Emerson never wanted to fail, for he cared for more than the food. If the Figure was nice enough to give him back to the orphanage, would a sixth home make much of a difference? Emerson had been a goose on migration, but floundered around because a chip in his wing forced him off course. Like a destiny was floating somewhere and he couldn't seem to get ahold of it.
    But the Figure would direct him. He promised. He promised for days to months to years. His destiny was idling like a relic stuck in ice, and the Figure could bring Emerson his axe to chip to it.