The cars were mostly empty. Here and there a mother and daughter, a father and son, darted around the corner to be plunged into the black portal, grimacing with apprehension.
“Open a checking account and a savings account,” the man said.
The boys nodded.
“Start a credit card. Open a line of credit and buy some shit.”
A few moments passed and a few more empty cars rattled past the gates of the inferno.
“Don’t buy too much shit. You’re establishin’ credit.”
One of the boys murmured something I could not hear.
“One-fifty, one-fifty. One-fifty in checking an’ one-fifty in savings.”
The group fell silent. All the cars were gone now. The stretch of track that ran out front, past the turnstile, glinted in the August sun.
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