The Train

Alex Plen

The train

- One ticket, - a platinum card lay on the dusty counter.

A pale, dark-haired man stood by the iron booth with the crooked sign reading “Ticket Office.” Rick Summers, the richest man on Earth. He clearly found it uncomfortable to bend at the waist and tilt his head. But that was the only way to peek through the ticket window, which, as if mocking him, was positioned four feet off the ground. Yet the man saw nothing but two inches of white table and a flickering, indistinct shadow in the depths.

Request unclear. Please specify the number of stations, - a dry, indifferent voice came from inside. The person (or not?) sitting in the booth couldn’t care less who was in front of him. And before the ticket window, bent in an awkward half-bow, stood the famous creator of “Eternity,” a global software development company, the ruler of modern progress, the king and god of advanced technology, the talented and successful inventor Mr. Summers.

I want a ticket for the Train... - Rick slowly repeated, grinding his teeth. No one had contradicted him for a long time. At least not in the last twenty years.

- Next! - shouted from inside. - And you, citizen, read the brochure again.

A familiar colored flyer advertising the “Train” was thrust through the window. Rick grabbed the paper and crumpled it in irritation. A hefty man approached from behind and rudely nudged him aside with his elbow.

- Don’t block the way, - he grumbled. - If you don’t know the rules, over there, - he nodded sideways. - It’s written in big letters on the wall. For those who read poorly, - he added sarcastically.

Rick squinted angrily. The old man resembled the owner of “Pacific International,” a multinational oil company. Did he also decide to try his luck by buying a ticket for the Train?

Rick didn’t argue. There were still thirty minutes until departure, and only three people in line. He mentally smirked—so many people had decided to say goodbye to this world and embark on another. Besides Rick and the hefty man from “Pacific,” there stood a thin man around fifty, dressed modestly, with an unremarkable frowning face. Rick couldn’t recall where he had seen him. But he knew for sure that there were no ordinary people at the ticket office. If the cost of one stop was five billion dollars, then the man was far from ordinary.

A passerby shoved the advertising flyer for the “Train” into Rick’s hand. He didn’t remember the face or gender of the brazen person. Normally, Rick would have thrown the flyer away immediately, but at that moment, he was so upset and dejected that he mechanically stuffed the paper into his jacket pocket.

He had just come from the medical center. After dismissing the driver and smashing his incessantly ringing phone against the asphalt, Rick wandered through Manhattan, not knowing where to go. The doctor had said he had no more than three or four months left. An inoperable brain tumor. Lately, his head had been constantly aching, making it impossible to concentrate, exhausting him with insomnia and mood swings, and for the first time in his life, Rick had dared to go to the hospital. And now, at forty-five, having reached the pinnacle of success, becoming the richest man on the planet, topping the Forbes list this year, he was supposed to die in a few months. What irony.

Rick had made his fortune on interactive programs. After writing an algorithm for a virtual contactless exam in college, he confidently moved forward. Within a year, his developments were implemented in all schools and universities across America, integrating assistant programs into mobile phones, watches, public transport, household appliances, and more. Every housewife had a kitchen assistant explaining and demonstrating how to prepare complex dishes. Every student had their own tutor.

His programs recognized faces by key control points, voice intonations, and the peculiarities of human movements. Moreover, the programs required no special energy or memory costs. Soon, he received a government grant to install interactive cameras on the streets, in banks, and organizations. Within a few years, the crime clearance rate tripled. Criminals were not saved by masks or distorted voices.

At home, as he removed his jacket, Rick heard a strange crunch. He reached into his pocket and, to his surprise, pulled out a folded flyer, brightly colored in red and blue. The advertising slogan caught his eye: “By giving up everything you have, you can gain a new life. The ‘Train’ Corporation offers a journey to another world, to another reality.” Rick crumpled the paper and tossed it to the floor without reading further. Nonsense.

The next day, the smoothed brochure appeared on his desk. Perhaps the staff found it and placed it there, thinking it was important. He had to read it to the end since he had nothing else to do. Just prepare for his funeral. He turned off the phones, warned the servants not to let anyone into the house, and sat down in his favorite chair to read.

The corporation offered clients to give up everything they had and receive a ticket for the Train. The number of stops depended on the passenger’s financial capacity. Each stop cost five billion dollars. “What a grand scheme,” Rick thought skeptically, “a colossal scam.” The Train departed once a year, on the first day of winter, at eight in the morning, from the Culiacan station. A miniature map followed. Rick took a magnifying glass and tried to examine it closely. The station was not in Culiacan itself but on the outskirts, outside the city, in an abandoned old depot. Rick turned on satellite navigation on his tablet but saw only a gray empty square where the hypothetical station should be. Google knew little about the depot. It had been a passenger car repair factory, built in the early twentieth century. It went bankrupt after the Mexican Revolution. Looted, left to rot and rust. That was it.

Rick leaned back in his chair, distracted. The first of December was two months away. Would he live to see it? That was one thing. And two... To give up everything he had. His fortune was estimated at about one hundred twenty billion dollars. Plus or minus a billion. Enough... Rick pondered. Lately, his mind had been working worse and worse. Living without painkillers had become impossible, and they clouded his consciousness and blurred his vision. He used to multiply three-digit numbers in his head with ease and calculate roots, but now... Rick took a calculator. Enough for twenty-four stops. But how many were there in total? Rick allowed himself to fantasize a little. In his youth, he had been fond of science fiction. Other worlds, parallel realities. Could there be twenty, thirty, forty other worlds? Or more? Unthinkable. His head began to throb painfully again. Rick tossed a handful of pills into his mouth and turned his gaze back to the brochure.

“You pay for the stop you can afford, but you can get off at any stop you want. If you like the world, you can disembark from the Train. In this case, your ticket is burned, and next time, you can board the Train on general terms.”

That was clear enough.

“The Train moves endlessly in a circle. There are no starting or ending stops. It penetrates all inhabited worlds in your sector, picking up and dropping off passengers. The stop lasts five minutes. During the Train’s journey, your body will change, adapting to the inhabitants of that world. But your consciousness will remain with you.”

Of course! Rick slapped his palm against the armrest. In other worlds, there are other beings. Perhaps they breathe methane or chlorine instead of oxygen? Maybe they have four arms or two heads? Rick smiled wryly. Like a child, honestly. He was daydreaming. What other worlds?! He looked at the brochure again. Cheap paper, letters blurred at the edges, screaming bright colors. Everything indicated that this advertising flyer was a scam and that the person who had slipped him the paper had somehow learned about his diagnosis and played on his desperation. The most sensible thing would be to throw it in the trash and forget about it.

But something inside resisted that. Perhaps a belief in miracles? Or a reluctance to sink into the hopelessness that had engulfed him after the hospital? What difference did it make who would get his billions? The scammers of the “Train” Corporation or distant relatives he had seen a few times in his deep childhood? He had no children. No wife either. Rick had always postponed starting a family, thinking he would have time. He was only forty-five. Alas, he hadn’t made it. Give it to charity? But no matter how much money he had given away before, people, on the whole, had not become better off. Hunger and wars had not ceased to exist on Earth. So, it wasn’t about charity.

He had three months left to live. He had seen the dark dense spot in the temporal region on the MRI with his own eyes. He had been consulted by the best doctor in New York. What else could he do? Just believe in the mythical Train and buy a ticket? Even if they killed him and took his money, it would still be better than a slow, painful decline in a vast empty mansion on the outskirts of New York.

In the following two months, Rick sold everything he had. He deposited the money into a bearer account and bought a ticket to Mexico. He arrived in Culiacan a day before the Train’s departure, on the thirtieth of November. He spent the night in a motel (though it was hardly appropriate to call it “spending the night” when he was continuously pacing back and forth in a dreary, shabby hotel room). Early in the morning, he took a taxi and went to the specified address. His head throbbed wildly, his vision blurred, and his body trembled uncontrollably. Rick gulped down handfuls of antispasmodics, but they provided relief for a maximum of an hour.

The taxi driver stopped at the edge of the former depot. Rick spoke little Spanish, but even his limited knowledge was enough to recognize the driver’s surprise and confusion in his rapid speech. What could such an important gentleman want among these old ruins? Rick deemed it beneath his dignity to explain. He silently exited the car and trudged toward the least damaged hangar in the center, where twisted tracks led.

In the depths of the hangar, under a leaky roof, stood an iron booth painted a dirty green. Above the semicircular window, Rick read the sign “Ticket Office.” The window was closed. He had arrived too early. He sat on a piece of pipe against the wall and pondered.

In an hour, he would learn who was behind this colossal scam. But in truth, he didn’t care. He had only a few weeks left to live. In any case, he was a dead man walking. Rick tore several sheets from his notebook and wrapped his documents in them. He shoved the package deep into the pipe. Perhaps someday someone would find them and discover what had happened to Rick Summers. Or perhaps they would rot here along with his bones.

The man poured the last pills into his palm, quickly tossed them into his mouth, washed them down with the remnants of water from a bottle, and prepared to wait.

Now, stepping away from the ticket booth, Rick struggled to concentrate and remember what was written in the brochure. His memory, which had never failed him before, now gaped with ragged holes. Did he need to name the station? But which one? Rick pulled out his notebook. Not trusting himself, he wrote down the exact amount. On his card, there were one hundred twenty-two billion seven hundred million one hundred fifty-two thousand dollars. That was all he had. He had even sold his parents’ old house, which he inherited at twenty when his father and mother died in a plane crash. All that remained were clothes and fifty dollars in small bills in the pocket of his coat, leftover from paying for the motel.

You did not meet the conditions! - a cold voice rang out from the booth. Rick turned around. The hefty man was trying to argue with the cashier in a muffled voice, almost shoving his head into the window. Useless. The voice coldly and mercilessly cut through like an axe. - You left an inheritance for your children. Next!

- Wait! I will sell everything! - shouted the owner of “Pacific,” gripping the counter, - in a week you will receive every cent.

The next train is in a year, on the first day of winter, - the cashier said dryly, - step away from the window.

- But I won’t live until next year! - the hefty man moaned, - give me a ticket! There are thirty billion on the card. Isn’t that enough for you?!

Rick felt sorry for the old man. He probably had an incurable disease too. Rick doubted the honesty of the corporation until the cashier expelled the fraudster. If the “Train” was a scam, what did it matter to them, thirty billion or forty? They would take the money and give a fake ticket. Rick watched the dejected man from “Pacific” shuffle away and stepped back to the iron booth.

To the twenty-fourth station, - he said when a spot at the counter opened up. The platinum card and fifty dollars on top of it instantly disappeared, and a simple paper rectangle with the number twenty-four appeared on the counter. Rick took the ticket in his hands and stepped aside. The ticket office was far from the platform, under a leaky, half-collapsed roof made of slate. Rick felt as if the roof would collapse on their heads at any moment, burying the unfortunate passengers beneath it. But that would be the least of his troubles.

There was only one track. The rusty, wavy rails suggested that the train could only move over them in the air. Rick still couldn’t believe that this was not a dream. Not some mad dying delusion born from a brain tumor. On the platform, there were only two of them. Rick didn’t remember what the strange tall man had said, to which station he had bought a ticket, and in general, it didn’t matter. They would never see each other again.

Suddenly, a thin, prolonged whistle sounded from afar. The concrete slabs of the platform vibrated noticeably. Rick squinted into the distance. Nothing. Just a vague haze on the horizon and dust swirling in the rays of the morning sun. Suddenly, at a distance of a few dozen feet from the station, the sharp-nosed metallic head of the Train appeared. Incredible! Creaking and jerking, it moved along the terribly mangled rails, snorting like a big fat rhinoceros. Rick did not see the engineer. The cars were small, each compartment with a separate entrance. They slowly glided past, with darkened windows in wooden frames, and no matter how hard Rick squinted, he could see nothing inside. The Train stopped. The doors of one compartment opened, and a completely naked man tumbled out. He ran away from the Train in fright. Then he suddenly stopped and began to spin his head wildly, anxiously feeling his body.

- Attention! The Train departs in five minutes! - a voice shouted, - new passengers, take the available seats.

His neighbor suddenly dashed into the newly vacated compartment and slammed the door behind him. Rick snapped out of his reverie and looked around carefully. He wanted to see the newcomer from another world one more time, but it was unthinkable to miss the boarding. Summers dashed along the platform, searching for an empty compartment. Finally, he found a half-open door at the end of the train. Quickly running inside, he slammed the door shut.

- Attention! The Train departs in one minute!

Rick settled onto a soft couch and clenched his fists. His heart thundered like crazy. The Train was real. It looked like something out of cowboy movies from the early twentieth century. Noisy, enormous, shrouded in white smoke, smelling of coal and resin. Calico curtains hung in the wooden windows, and the seats were upholstered in red velvet. Rick felt as if he had entered a fantastical, unreal world. It was both frightening and exhilarating, and he was curious.

The whistle sounded, and the Train started moving, quickly gaining speed. The ruins of the depot, destroyed buildings, and fallen pipes whizzed by. Suddenly, the train dove into a tunnel. For a moment, it became dark. Rick widened his eyes in surprise. There were no tunnels, mountains, mines, or caves on the map of this area. Where did it come from? The Train emerged, and before Rick’s eyes, as far as he could see, stretched jungles.

In northern Mexico? Rick shook his head in disbelief and felt his neck strangely bend. He stared at his hands. His fingers had elongated and were covered in tiny scales. Rick jumped up, took off his jacket, and unbuttoned his shirt, struggling to fit the buttons. His shoulders narrowed, his chest rounded like a wheel, also covered in thick scaly skin. Unbelievable! Rick laughed joyfully. He had truly entered another world! The brochure hadn’t lied! This was incredible!

There were no mirrors in the compartment, so Rick couldn’t see himself from the outside. He took off his shoes, rolled up his pants, and examined his feet. His toes had elongated, and sharp claws had grown at the tips. Rick touched his hair. His head was covered in thick, dense fur, like a lion’s mane. It cascaded down his back and disappeared between his shoulder blades. The compartment had also changed. The calico curtains and velvet upholstery had vanished. The couch itself was gone. Now, he could only sit on the floor. Rick settled by the window and pressed his face almost against the glass (or was it not glass?), staring in astonishment at the foreign world passing by.

Lush, dense greenery alternated with rocky ledges dotted with caves, resembling honeycombs from a distance. Sometimes Rick saw small settlements of two dozen wooden houses. Sometimes there were even bustling cities. The Train stopped in the middle of a clearing. In the center stood a thick tree with a small round hole. “The ticket office, perhaps,” Rick thought cheerfully. On the lawn stood one... No, not a person. A creature resembling Rick in his current form. It was on all fours, intently watching the passing cars.

- Those wishing to leave the Train may do so, - an expressionless voice sounded inside the compartment.

“But no,” Rick thought, “I didn’t give up one hundred twenty-two billion to get off at the first stop. I will see all the worlds while my ticket lasts.” Nothing more thrilling had ever happened to him in his life.

The second world was completely urbanized. Not a single tree, bush, or blade of grass. Towering high-rise structures of various shapes stretched to the horizon. On the strange pointed roofs spun either blades or wings. Everywhere he looked—asphalt, metal, and glass (at least that’s how it appeared from the outside). Rick’s body elongated upward, becoming flexible and thin. His arms and legs resembled spider legs. His pale, translucent skin, fingers without nails, and a hairless head. Brr. Rick imagined how he looked from the outside. No. He would definitely go further. One person exited the Train, three boarded. The train set off.

The third world was very beautiful. Houses woven from branches and leaves grew on enormous tall trees, adorned with flowers. Juicy ripe fruits hung right in front of the semicircular entrance. Butterflies fluttered in the air like huge parachutes, sparkling webs danced around. It looked wonderful and mesmerizing. At the same time, the sun shone in the sky, and a round full moon shimmered. Just paradise.

Wings grew on Rick’s back, his chest changed again, becoming barrel-shaped. His arms and legs shortened. Long, curved claws appeared on his fingers. On the platform, woven from vines and shrubs, stood (or hovered in the air) several plump creatures lazily flapping their wings. “Not very attractive,” Rick thought, “but what a beautiful world! And I will have wings!” He even pondered whether to exit or not. Then he decided to go further. He had seen only three worlds. And he had a ticket to the twenty-fourth! Plus, he was a little scared. A foreign world, foreign rules, customs, principles. He would have to adapt. What if somewhere in the chain of worlds, there was another Earth? Exactly the same as the one he had left? Deep down, he hoped for that.

Five people exited the Train. Those who disembarked at this station awkwardly shuffled away on their short legs. Someone tried to flap their wings and fell to the ground with a thud. Rick chuckled, shrugged, sat on the floor, and began to ponder what values might exist in a world of living houses? What do people pay for a ticket on the “Train”? Do they really pay with flowers and fruits? Or with silver webs floating in the air? Then they would need to collect tons of them.

In the fourth world, instead of air, there was a dense bluish substance resembling a semi-liquid gel. It could (probably) be breathed. Rick also saw someone slowly descending from a great height straight to the platform, walking through the air as if on a staircase. Amazing! His body had changed, but it was almost indistinguishable from a human. Two arms, two legs, a head. His feet had become more like flippers, with webbing between the toes. His hair had twisted into braids. And that was it. In the previous world, Rick had completely undressed since his shirt had torn due to his wings, and his pants had split at the waist. Being naked made it easier to observe the changes in his body.

Overall, Rick liked this world. Solid, tall buildings reminiscent of earthly skyscrapers loomed on the horizon. Vegetation also existed in the form of quite ordinary greenery—trees and grass. The ticket office was a small, charming sand-colored house with a flat roof. He was about to open the compartment door when he noticed something resembling a balloon in the distance. Black with an incomprehensible inscription around it. Even those standing on the platform, upon seeing the gondola from afar, fell to the ground and covered their heads with their hands, even though it was very far from them. Rick retreated deeper into the compartment, gazing thoughtfully out the window. Fear? Reverence? Awe before a deity or dictatorship? Unclear, but it was better to move on.

The Train set off. Worlds flashed by outside, and Rick’s body changed, sometimes resembling a beast, sometimes a bird, sometimes an insect. He was covered in fur, feathers, and slippery, sticky skin. He grew an extra pair of arms, legs, and eyes. His body stretched ten feet at times, then shrank to five inches. He had one head, two heads. His ears transformed into huge round locators, then disappeared altogether. Rick had long stopped counting the stops; he hoped he would be warned when to get off. He couldn’t go beyond the twenty-fourth anyway. He simply sat on the floor, watching and marveling at the diversity of worlds.

The Train also changed. It raced through space, stopping for a few minutes to pick up and drop off passengers, diving into a tunnel, surfacing on the other side of the universe. In each world, it was unique. Woven from branches, forged from steel. Woven from drops of water, stitched from muscles and tendons. A living organism, never tiring and requiring no refueling. It would elongate, adding extra cars, then shorten, cutting off unnecessary parts. It flew through the air, then swam through the sea. Immortal, incomprehensible, eternal.

Rick watched the flashing worlds. Eventually, they merged into a colorful swirling whirlpool for him. An indescribable longing engulfed him. He wanted to go home, to his native imperfect world. Where there is sorrow, but there is also joy. Pain and happiness. Death and birth. All in equal measure. And all in abundance. And there is something for everyone.

Rick fell asleep. He dreamed that he had grown wings and was flying over Manhattan, in the form of a big fat fly. And the people bustling below had no idea that flies also have minds. He wanted to tell them about himself, to share that he thinks, feels, and senses. Rick flew into an open window of an apartment, settled on a table, trying to attract the attention of a person. And suddenly he saw a huge, rapidly approaching rectangle of a magazine above his head.

Rick jolted awake and opened... his eyes?

Prepare yourselves. Your station is next, - a voice sounded in the compartment.

Rick looked around in shock. The compartment was filled with water or some other liquid. He stretched out his hand. No hands, just a long tentacle with numerous suckers. One, two, three... Damn! Hundreds of thin, winding tentacles. They grew chaotically from one another, forming a tangled, chaotic network. And where was his head, his torso? Nothing. Just countless appendages. He could see with every cell of his body. He looked simultaneously forward, backward, to the right and left, up and down. It was so strange and unusual. And shocking.

The Train swam in the ocean. Neither the bottom nor the surface was visible. Only milky murk all around.

So, this is what the twenty-third world is like. A world of water and nightmarish centipedes. Rick screamed in horror. He had no mouth, no voice; he screamed with all his incomprehensible essence. He didn’t want to become like this! He was terrified that the next stop would be even worse. They would turn him into an amoeba or some other slimy creature, and he would have to live his life in the body of this abomination. He should have gotten off at the first stations! Those worlds were at least somewhat similar to his native one. And now? What awaited him?

- Why are you screaming? - the voice in the compartment said.

I don’t want to become like this! - Rick pulsed with tentacles (or what was left of him), - I don’t want to get off! Better kill me right here!

- So, you refuse the trip?

- Yes! I refuse, - Rick didn’t understand what that meant. He thought they would atomize him or throw him out of the Train into nowhere. But a fate like that was better than existing in the form of a squid.

Rick Summers, you refuse the trip and return to your world, called Earth.

- What?! Is that even possible? - Rick jerked in shock, - to go home?

What kind of people! They’re all the same everywhere! - he thought he heard irritation in the engineer’s voice, - no one reads the fine print at the bottom. In the case of a motivated categorical refusal, the passenger has the right to return to the place from which they came. Monetary funds are not refundable.

- I don’t care! Even if I have a month or a week left. I want to live it on Earth. I want to go home.

Earth will be after one hundred fifty-four stops. You will be notified. The compartment will be locked, and you will no longer be able to see the worlds.

The engineer disconnected. The windows darkened, and Rick found himself in pitch darkness. So be it. He exhaled in relief and sprawled on the floor, stretching out his tentacles. He would return home. Poor, sick, on the brink of death, but he would return. He would see people again, sullen, unsociable, rushing about their important business. But he would also see the happy faces of children, hear their laughter. He would breathe in the smell of New York. The aroma of gasoline, exhaust fumes, dust, and burning rubber. He didn’t need other worlds; he loved his own. If he was destined to die in it, then so be it.

Rick was thrown onto the platform completely naked. The same half-ruined hangar, the same green booth with the sign “Ticket Office.” Nothing had changed. Rick looked around in shock, trying to come to his senses. He groped his body with his hands, feeling the familiar shapes of his palms, head, and ears. A rushing passenger ran past him. Rick watched him with a sympathetic gaze. A couple of minutes later, the Train honked and set off, taking away new seekers of adventure.

He had had enough adventures.

First and foremost, he needed to retrieve his documents, find some clothes, money... Mentally listing the urgent tasks, Rick stepped under the awning. Along the wall, rags were hanging on nails. Torn, dusty shirts, wrinkled pants, dresses, cloaks. Rick stopped in surprise. Why hadn’t he noticed this last time?

- New arrivals are entitled to a stipend, - a voice sounded from the booth, - please approach the window.

Rick, grabbing a more or less clean shirt and pants, stepped closer.

And how much will you give? - he said skeptically. A stack of hundred-dollar bills landed on the counter. Rick smirked ironically and took the money. Two thousand dollars. Unheard-of generosity.

And where do you put the enormous amount of money you receive for the ticket? - he couldn’t help but ask.

- Do you think the Train moves just like that? - a mocking laugh came from the booth. - It needs fuel. A lot of fuel. And money in your world is just as much energy as gasoline or gas. Only a thousand times better.

- Do you only choose the rich?

- Not only, - the voice sounded mysteriously. - You can pay for a ticket in different ways. You paid with money. Others pay differently. There will always be people who want to leave their world. There are always those who are dissatisfied with something or are terminally ill, - the voice replied, - and the Train needs to eat.

- I see, - Rick muttered and stepped away from the booth. The window slammed shut, and silence fell.

His documents were there, in the pipe under the trash. He had to walk to Culiacan. Then a bus ticket to Mexico City and a plane ticket. Only in America, after exiting the terminal, did Rick notice the date on the arrival board - December second, but the year was the next one. It seemed to Rick that the ground swayed beneath his feet. He had been gone for no more than a day, yet a year had passed. How could that be?

“What is there to be surprised about? - Rick muttered under his breath in the end, - you have seen many other worlds, turned into monsters and squids yourself. And here is just a year irretrievably lost.”

Rick wanted to call his friends, to find out what had happened during that year while he was away, but he decided it was unnecessary; he had no more than a few weeks left to live. And when he urgently sold his assets, colleagues and acquaintances unanimously called him crazy, a lunatic gone off the rails. And now, in clothes from someone else’s shoulder, unshaven and disheveled, he didn’t look like himself at all; what social gatherings could he attend?

Rick hoped that the remaining money would be enough to last until the end. But days and weeks passed, and the end did not come. And what was most unusual—his head did not hurt at all.

- Strange, - the doctor examined the tomography in surprise, - no tumor. Are you sure you had one?

Rick shrugged in confusion. He had come to the municipal hospital out of hopelessness and despair. He had no money for the expensive clinic he had previously attended, and the uncertainty was more exhausting than the illness itself. He was tired of balancing on the edge of life and death, tired of being afraid. His brain was working like clockwork. Clearly and impeccably. His active mind persistently demanded work, engagement. And yesterday, at lunch, he even began sketching out the algorithm for a new computer program.

- Man, you are as healthy as a horse, - the doctor finally declared, - get out of here, I have plenty of other patients.

Rick hurried to retreat from the office. Inside, elation bubbled up, mixed with disbelief. So, when he had turned into a mass of tentacles, without a head and torso, had the tumor disappeared? Or earlier, when his body changed with each stop? He would never know. But one thing he knew for sure—there was no longer a disease threatening him. He was free. He would start life anew and become the richest man on Earth again. He was only forty-five. All he had to do was make a call—they would accept him for any job. His mind, resourcefulness, and inventiveness had not gone anywhere. As well as his knowledge and determination.

Rick walked through the crowded streets of New York, enjoying the pleasant winter day. Huge opportunities opened up before him. He had been given a second chance. A new life was gifted to him. Wait! And was he going to spend it again on the race for money?

Rick suddenly stopped in the middle of the street. Fool! Did he really need billions for happiness? He had them, and so what? Was he happy? In the last ten years, he couldn’t remember a single instance when he felt anything resembling happiness. He was already forty-five. No family, no children...

Suddenly, someone bumped into his shoulder. Rick turned around with a frown.

- Sorry, - a young blonde woman quickly said, - I didn’t see you standing in the way. I rushed out like...

Don’t apologize, - Rick smiled, gallantly extending his hand, - it was me standing like a post in the middle of the exit. - Rick looked up and read, - from “Escobar Gallery.” Do you work here?

- Yes, - the woman mumbled, responding to his smile uncertainly and shyly, - as an interior designer. And you..?

Rick gazed eagerly at her bright, internally radiant face. The woman was just over thirty. Tiny, laughing wrinkles lingered at the corners of her green eyes. Her lips froze in a hesitant half-smile—either to smile widely or stubbornly shrink in fear. An ordinary earthly woman, but for some reason, at that moment, she seemed the most beautiful in the world to Rick.

How about we have dinner tonight, and I’ll tell you everything? I promise it will be interesting, - Rick said decisively, with the crushing willpower he applied to any new endeavor.

The woman hesitated for a moment and then nodded.

- I’ll be free at seven. Shall we meet here, at the gallery?

- I’ll be waiting, - Rick said cheerfully, and after watching the taxi carrying the charming designer away, he headed home. He felt light and simple inside. A goal had appeared. New, unlike the previous ones. And he felt it was the right one.

the end