As Barry stared at Chronic's face, lines and wrinkles fade, smooth and then sink again, as if drawn and erased when he talks. From the inside of a coat that's over a shirt so stained it appears tie-dyed, he pulls a locket. Twisting it open on the rusted hinge he holds up to Barry two pictures. One has a man in his forties, business suit, very "corporate," looking out an expansive window from a glass and steel tower onto a late twentieth-century city, the other a man in an engineer's cap, face smudged with streaks like a crying wide-receiver. One man owns the city that the other man serves, chauffeuring crates, cattle, and men into and out of it.
  "Time is a train and is not a train," he says.