Dusk. A lone boxcar clatters down the tracks. Squint, and you’ll see two silhouettes huddled inside. One peels the lid off a tin can; the other rips open a plastic pouch with his teeth. They say grace over the feast of Vienna Sausages and Lit’l Smokies. Forget, for one moment, about the world outside this godforsaken freight car. It’s suppertime. We don’t know how a boxcar can travel without a locomotive either, so shut up. www.spilledmilkpodcast.com