I never thought my last shift would be my most important. Me and Will Colson—we’re just moving boxcars north on 1206, minding the rails, when Connie’s voice crackles over the radio: ‘Runaway southbound. Get to RIP track. Now.’

We barely clear the siding when Triple 7 screams past like a freightened beast, smashing our last car to splinters. I see it then—the rear coupler’s open. It’s not just running. It’s uncontrolled. And it’s headed straight for Stanton.

I key the mic: ‘Connie, we can couple to it. Use our brakes to slow it down.’

Galvin comes on the line, cold: ‘Negative, Barnes. You’re not trained for this. Pull back.’

I look at Will, blood already seeping through his boot. He nods.

We’re not pulling back.

The Stanton curve’s coming. If we don’t slow it there, thousands die. I grab the radio.

‘Then we’ll do it without your permission.’