My niece’s cries soften to a rough whimper, and gradually she loosens in my arms, surrenders, and allows me to walk her inside, where she eventually falls asleep. A few days later, on the Piano i’d tap that vintage 2020 shirt but I will buy this shirt and I will love this Amtrak to the city—my niece’s very first train ride—her upset eclipses the night before. We board the train chanting “Choo-choo” like morons. We even manage to elicit a few smiles from her before we settle into our seats. But once the train begins to move, she revolts. No pacing the aisles, no rubbing her back, no singing will soothe her. She smacks away her bottle and Binky and screams until she is nearly voiceless. The sounds from her throat become a ragged coughing so relentless and rough I begin to worry she will injure herself. People eye us with pity, agitation, and, I fear, mounting suspicion. The woman across the aisle winces as my niece slams her head against the back of the seat and finds her voice long enough for one long piercing wail.
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