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A man wearing an old-fashioned fedora and argyle sweater vest slid into the seat across the aisle, then immediately withdrew a rickety looking typewriter and began to pound on the keys. His fingers moved deftly as he added word after word to the sheaf of paper hanging from the top of his old-fashioned machine.

A typewriter on a train. Two anachronisms in one.

Throw in the fedora, and that makes three.

Suddenly the man stopped typing and pushed his glasses farther up his nose as he turned toward me.“What’s a good word for suspicious? Except for more subtle?” His unblinking eyes bored into me as he waited for some kind of genius revelation to spring forth from my mouth.

“Um, odd? Curious?” Kind of like you.

He rubbed his chin.“Hmm, I’m not sure those will work. Ahh, well. I’ll come back to it in the second draft.”

“The second draft? Are you writing a novel?”

That was kind of cool. My nan had always claimed she’d write a book, and little by little she had made progress over the past several months—although the book she was working on was a memoir, not a work of fiction. I often wondered if she planned to include the truth about my grandfather and bio-grandma.

“Oh, yes,” the man said with a smile that lit up his whole face. “Not just any novel, the next great American novel. You see, it’s about—”

“Angela!” Octo-Cat cried from inside his carrier, practically panting in his sudden onset of panic. “Get out! Get out now, or we will be forced to spend the entire journey listening to this guy’s delusions of literary grandeur.”

“It sounds wonderful,” I told the aspiring novelist. “Unfortunately, my cat needs to be fed now.”

The tabby yowled pitifully to help sell our story.

I still thought it might be cool to talk to a real live writer, but the fact that this one referred to his unfinished manuscript as the next great American novel was a flashing warning sign. This guy thought he was important, talented, God’s gift to readers, even. I was all for credit where credit was due but believed it was better to let others sing your praises than to belt them out on your own.

“I’ll be back later, okay?” I offered with a friendly smile. I didn’t want to be unsupportive of his dreams, especially since my dream of becoming a full-time P.I. with my talking cat as a partner was every bit as crazy.

“And run,” Octo-Cat directed.

I was not going to run away from the poor guy. At least not literally.

I stuck a Bluetooth device in my ear as we pushed through our car into the next. The thing hadn’t worked in years, but it did provide a great misdirect when I felt the need to talk to Octo-Cat in a public place.

“What do you think?” I asked him as I felt the train jolt to life under my feet. My hand stretched toward the wall, catching me just in time to avoid my stumbling forward.

“Well, that was unpleasant” my cat complained with a low growl. “Can I please get out of this thing now?”

“I’ll let you out as soon as we settle somewhere,” I promised, pausing for a moment to glance out the window as we rolled away from the station. Nan was still out there waving like mad, but soon she became a speck on the horizon.

He sighed and thumped around in the case.“I know it was just an excuse to get away from Chatty McMyNovel, but I could use a meal or at least a spot of Evian.”

“The dining car it is.” I raised him higher and hugged the carrier to my chest as I pushed into the next car.

I hoped the conductor wouldn’t give my parents a hard time for me being up and out of my seat already, but then again most of what I knew about trains came from old timey books and movies. Things seemed to run a bit different in our modern age of digitization.

Luckily, we only had to pass through three other passenger cars before reaching our destination. That was good news for the journey ahead. I liked knowing that snacks were nearby, should we need them.

“I should probably text Mom and Dad to let them know where we went.” I unlatched the wire front door, and Octo-Cat sprang out onto the table twitching mightily.

“You do realize that in cat years that was almost a full prison sentence, right?” He shuddered, then plopped on his side and began to lick his kitty bits for all to see—and on an eating surface, no less. At least I was used to his less than courteous ways.

Shaking my head, I sent a quick text to my mom, asking if she needed anything while we were over here. As soon as I sent the message, my phone spat out a message to let me know I had a low battery. Twenty percent. Ugh, leave it to me to be so preoccupied with the upcoming journey that I forgot essentials like making sure I had a fully charged phone.

Glancing around the dining car, however, put my fears to rest. Every single table had an electrical outlet. I just needed to fine my phone charger inside my jumbled mess of a suitcase and then we’d be perfectly fine.

“I’ll go see if they have any Evian,” I told Octo-Cat.

He mumbled something, not bothering to pause his public ministrations to address me properly.