I lie face down, my eyes, my nose, my mouth all concealed. Aside from the rhythm of my sheets, all my exposed ears can hear is the sorrowful journey of the material up north, away from the city. The large steel beams stack cold and silent on top one another. They nod against the yellow stained boxes of wood, shuffling along the rattling cages. The stagnant air in the boxcar hums a low G chord. Sounds of unrest are drowned by the train's night whistle.
I fall asleep to the march. My head turns on to its side. My lips part in silent breathes. I will be the last person to hear the wood, steel, and caged styrofoam for a long time.