Smoke, dense and gritty, hung like a pall over the narrow confines of the make-shift passenger section. A converted cattle car, called into service after the euphemistic Time of Troubles, doubled as dining/sleeping/lounge area.
The man moved awkwardly, shifting his valise from one hand to the other, avoiding a paunch here, a generous bosom there, an obstacle course of legs, muddy boots and coarse wool.
"Sorry. So sorry," he muttered, unsure which language he should use -- the gutteral peasant-speak he'd so laboriously trained himself to near-fluency, or his native tongue, near forgotten in a wash of time and circumstance. Buried, lest it give him away.
He inhaled, shallow breaths only. The stench of unwashed bodies intermingled with an acrid sting, a throat-numbing, noxious blend of dental decay and fragrant weed.
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