Hobo Tough -

They lay flat against the freezing floor, Artie using his own heavy wool coat to bridge the gap between them, sharing the meager warmth. He’d survived the Great Flood of '93 and the winter of '08 by knowing exactly how much a human body could take before it broke.

"How do you do it?" the kid asked. "How do you stay out here?" hobo tough

Should we explore Artie's and what drove him to the rails, or They lay flat against the freezing floor, Artie

As the train crested the mountain pass, a "bull"—a private rail security guard—shined a high-powered spotlight into the car during a slow-down. The kid panicked, looking to jump. "How do you stay out here

Artie showed him the first rule of the rails: He helped the kid stuff the crumpled newsprint down his sleeves, into his boots, and layered against his chest. Paper trapped the air; air trapped the heat.

The rails don’t hum anymore; they scream. Artie “Iron-Lung” Miller wasn’t built for the modern world, but he was forged for the steel road. He carried everything he owned in a canvas pack that smelled of woodsmoke and old copper. At sixty-four, his skin was the color of a cured tobacco leaf, mapped with scars from narrow misses and cold nights.

He wasn't alone. A kid, barely twenty, was huddled in the corner, shivering so hard his teeth sounded like castanets. He was wearing a designer hoodie that might as well have been made of tissue paper.