Archive of Our Own

Momma had been warned that the new hire was quiet. Lumber the wood truck, they had told her. He had only been in the workforce for eighteen months, and three of them were spent trying to fix a manufacturing mistake. 

She had been expecting quiet, not timid. The kid barely made eye contact when she introduced herself and didn’t give any introduction of his own. “Don’t worry about that too much,” the engine that brought him in reassured her. “He’s thick as two short planks, but he does his job just fine,” she barked a laugh, as if she had said the funniest thing in the world.

Momma had only hummed disapprovingly in response, which the engine didn’t notice. She could see the kid shrinking into himself even more out of the corner of her eye.

The tour hadn’t taken long. Lumber hadn’t asked any questions, just following her like a ghost around the small yard. He was nearly hiding behind her when she introduced him to the freights he would be sharing a room with: Connie, the cement hopper, and Flash, the diesel tanker. The two trucks were about Lumber’s age and pleasant enough, so Momma had hoped they would get along. Lumber had taken his work schedule without a word and disappeared into the shared room.

That night, Momma read his file more closely. All her trains had one, usually detailing past injuries and work experience. Lumber’s was short. He worked for another yard for fifteen months, a manufacturing issue started acting up, and he was sent to be repaired. Three months later, he was sent to her yard. In his file, she was instructed to report any issues so they could be sure the repairs worked.

It couldn’t be that simple. Most trains his age were loud and boisterous, believing themselves to be the pinnacle of engineering. She would have to keep an eye on him.

–

One of the first things Momma noticed about Lumber was how tired he always seemed to be. Though he was usually among the first to fall asleep, Connie always complained about dragging him out of bed for his morning shifts. When Momma asked the wood truck about it, he merely shrugged and looked at the ground. It had been nearly a month, and she had not heard him speak yet.

Connie and Flash hadn’t taken him in as Momma hoped they would. The two were practically attached at the hip and seemed to have no intention of inviting Lumber into that friendship. On the contrary, actually. Connie always complained about him, saying how creepy he was and openly calling him an idiot. Although Flash wasn’t as openly rude, they would constantly glare at Lumber.

Momma wasn’t sure what to do. A train his age should be able to handle this on his own, and yet, Momma was hesitant to leave him to sort it out himself. She felt protective of all her trucks, as any good yardmaster should, but Lumber felt different.

“Chug to Troubadour Yard,” Chug’s voice from the radio interrupted her thoughts. She sighed, slowly rising to her feet and skating to her desk.

“Momma to Chug. What’s going on?” she responded, trying not to sound bored. Chug was the type of train that updated her on everything from a major crash to a weird bug on the tracks.

The panic in his voice made her sit up straighter. “Something’s wrong with Lumber. I think I was going to fast– he’s not breathing right,” the diesel explained.

“Where are you?” Momma demanded, pulling her mobile radio from the desk and skating toward the door.

“About a hundred kilometers down the Southern tracks. Please– I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m already on my way.” Momma reached the central station in record time, throwing a handful of coal into her firebox and stepping onto the tracks. “Put him on his side and try to keep him breathing.” She clipped the radio to her belt.

It took longer than she would have liked to get up to speed. She wasn’t the engine she used to be, as much as she struggled to admit it. Still, she was a force to be reckoned with, especially when one of her trains was in danger.

The trains came into view about thirty minutes later. Momma hopped off the tracks, rolling to a stop at Chug and Lumber’s side. Chug looked utterly lost, hand hovering over Lumber’s shoulder as the truck coughed and wheezed on the grass. Lumber stared at nothing, eyes wide and terrified as he fought for breath.

Momma dropped to her knees, pulling the truck into her lap. She pressed her ear into his chest, unsurprised to hear his heart racing and a high-pitched wheezing sound.

As she lifted her head, arms were suddenly thrown around her neck. She paused, glancing down to see Lumber’s face buried in her shoulder. Starlight, he looked so small like this. Wetness gathered on her neck; she knew it wasn’t just from his coughing.

Momma gently pulled him upright, carefully maneuvering herself to sit cross-legged. He continued to sob and cough and wheeze into her neck, clinging to her like his life depended on it. She rubbed his back firmly.

“Chug, how far away are the medics?” she turned her head toward the diesel, now awkwardly kneeling nearby. His head snapped up, his face going pale. Momma sighed. “If you forgot to call them, go do it now,” she ordered. Chug nodded, fumbling his radio as he quickly stood and skated a few meters away.

Thankfully, the other freights had given them space. Momma turned her attention back to Lumber. “You’ll be okay. Try to breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth,” she guided, taking an exaggerated inhale and letting it out slowly. She could tell he was trying, but any amount of air he could get was lost in sobs and hiccups.

This was the first time she had heard him make a sound more than a grunt. The fact broke her heart. She stayed with him until the medics arrived, quietly whispering reassurances and rubbing his back. His breathing had improved slightly, but seeing the medics approaching was more than a relief.

Momma waved the repair truck over, not bothering to stand. He was small, as most repair trucks tended to be. He introduced himself as Ward, already pulling out an oxygen tank and a stethoscope. Lumber stiffened as Ward listened to his lungs but thankfully didn’t move.

Momma coaxed Lumber’s head off of her shoulder just long enough for Ward to slip an oxygen mask over his head. He trembled horribly, but his breathing calmed somewhat once the valve on the tank was opened.

“Alright, Lumber, let’s get you to the repair shed.” Ward shifted, gathering up his supplies and standing up. Lumber’s hold on Momma tightened. Although his breathing was better, the hiccups and sobs had not stopped.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Momma murmured, hooking an arm under his knee. She grunted as she stood, holding Lumber in a bridal carry. He stiffened, clinging to her neck as if she would drop him. “Don’t worry. My racing days may be over, but I can carry you just fine,” she huffed. Lumber buried his face in her collarbone, turning away from the other freights. Rusty often did the same thing, although his primary mission was to get as close to her warm engine as possible.

Rusty. Her little engine, so young that he spent more time in the growth chamber than he did outside of it. She loved her son with everything she had, and she knew deep in her heart that she would do anything to protect him.

She could almost imagine Rusty in her arms now, clinging to her neck and sobbing in place of Lumber. Even when the image faded, the protectiveness stayed. She stopped in her tracks as a realization dawned on her.

That’s why she had always seen Lumber differently. Now that she was looking, she could see how similar he was to her son. The way he hid behind her on that first day, the way his gaze locked on whatever caught his attention as if he could understand all its secrets if he stared long enough. And now, the way he clung to her as if she could protect him from the world.

And she wanted to. She needed to. She had only ever felt this way with trainlets, yet here she was, holding a full-grown train as if he were her own.

“Ma’am?” Ward asked, brows furrowed.

Momma filed away that realization for later. “Sorry, I was just thinking about something,“ Momma explained. "Chug,” Momma called as she strode toward the flatbed. “Radio Ironworks Station and tell them your wood truck had a medical emergency and that you’re on your way now.” Chug nodded quickly, skating over to the other freights.

Momma sat down on the flatbed with a grunt before carefully extracting Lumber from her arms. Lumber seemed reluctant. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,” she reassured him. Lumber looked at her skeptically but allowed her to place him on the flatbed. He shifted nervously as she stepped away, eyeing Ward as the repair truck approached the flatbed.

“We’ll want to have you sitting upright,” Ward explained. “We don’t have the right support blocks right now, so either I or Miss…” he trailed off, raising an eyebrow at Momma.

“Call me Momma.”

“Either Momma or I can ride with you on the flatbed,” he continued. “Whichever is most comfortable for you.”

Lumber didn’t respond immediately, but Momma didn’t miss how his eyes flicked to her. Hesitantly, he pointed to Momma. She smiled, stepping back up to the flatbed and sitting down. Secretly, she had been hoping he would choose her. The ride to the site had tired her out, and the warmth of a steam engine was one of the best comforts she could offer.

 Ward directed Momma to sit upright with Lumber between her legs. His back pressed against her chest, his head tilted back to rest on her collarbone. Momma wrapped her arms around him as Ward began to strap them to the flatbed.

Lumber slowly raised his hands to grasp hers as the flatbed moved. His chest heaved underneath her hands, but the loud sobs had quieted to hiccups. 

The ride to the repair station gave Momma time to think. Something was different about Lumber. Something within her insisted that he was exceptionally young, even though he was older than Connie and Flash.

When she looked at him now, trembling on her lap, she couldn’t see anything but a trainlet. Something was off.

Momma stayed with Lumber as they entered the hospital bay. Momma stood and helped Lumber onto a separate flatbed, walking with him to an exam room. Ward said goodbye once they entered, handing them off to another repair truck named Scrub. 

The initial inspection went well. Lumber was compliant, much more so than most trains were at his age. The three months in repairs probably helped with that. However, problems arose when they started asking questions. “So, have you always had breathing problems?” Scrub asked, sitting on a nearby chair and pulling out a notebook. Lumber nodded. “Have you ever been diagnosed with asthma?” they asked next, not looking up from their notebook.

Scrub raised an eyebrow as Lumber made a so-so gesture. “I’m not sure what you mean by that,” they huffed.

Lumber froze, chewing on his lip and staring at his hands. He put his hands about fifty centimeters apart, before pointing to a specific spot on his made-up line. He gave a thumbs up in the middle, then gestured slightly right and flicked his hand.

“I’m sorry, i have no idea what that means,” Scrub sighed, pinching the bridge of their nose. “Here,” they opened a nearby drawer, pulling out a pen and paper. Lumber took it hesitantly. “I’ll ask again. Have you been diagnosed with asthma?”

Lumber stared at the pen and paper for a concerning amount of time. When the repair truck gestured for him to go on, he finally started scribbling. His hand shook terribly, and he held the pen unsteadily. He drew a line and then put an “X” about two-thirds down its length. He then drew a smiley face and an arrow pointing to a different point in the line.

Scrub peeked over at his drawing, before sighing and rubbing their nose again. “Words, please. I don’t have all day.”

Lumber’s entire face flushed, and he quickly flipped the page over. He stared at the empty paper, hand trembling. The repair truck cleared their throat, prompting Lumber to put pen to paper again.

Momma peeked over his shoulder, worry increasing as she saw what he had written. He shakily handed it to Scrub, looking at the floor and blushing darkly.

Scrub raised an eyebrow. “This is just your signature,” they commented, obviously frustrated. They directed their following comment toward Momma. “Not very bright, is he?” they murmured.

Momma scowled at the repair truck as Lumber shrunk into himself. “Give me that,” she demanded, snatching the paper from Scrub’s hands.

She knew some of his history, at least more than Scrub did. She stared at the image, trying to remember as much as possible from his file. Could asthma be considered a manufacturing error? “Lumber, was asthma one of the things they tried to fix while you were being repaired?” Momma asked.

Lumber nodded, lifting his head to offer her a small smile. Momma smiled back before looking back at the repair truck with none of the same friendliness. “He spent a few months getting some manufacturing mistakes fixed, and his asthma was supposedly fixed as well. If I were to guess, he was diagnosed with asthma, but the diagnosis was retracted,” Momma explained. Lumber nodded.

Scrub hummed, scribbling something down on their notepad. “Well, they must have not done their job right. I’ll give him an inhaler and instructions on how to use it. Keep an eye on him and make sure he rests for a couple of days.” Scrub stood up, opened a cabinet, and pulled out a small bag. “I’ll send a message to your control; you’ll get refills when you need them.”

Momma didn’t thank them as she took the bag. Lumber slowly stood, eagerly taking the hand Momma offered. Lumber grabbed her couplers tightly as she skated out of the room.

The ride back to the station was quiet, just as she expected. Momma went slow, not wanting to trigger another attack. They rolled up to the Troubadour Central Station a few hours later, after the sun had set. Momma headed straight for her shed.

Lumber hesitated, glancing back at the freight shed, but didn’t drop her couplers. “You’ll be staying with me for a couple days so I can keep an eye on you,” she explained. Lumber, predictably, didn’t respond.

Momma’s shed was small. The main room had a small kitchen and a couch, while the only other room held her bed and workstation. A small bathroom connected to the main room. Despite its size, she liked her shed. It was cozy, decorated with old championship trophies and pictures of Rusty.

Momma directed Lumber to sit at the kitchen counter as she pulled a soup container from the fridge. Lumber fidgeted as she poured it into a saucepan and heated it. “It’s potato soup. You’ll be sleeping on the couch, but you can wake me if you need anything. Starlight knows Chug does,” she barked a laugh, eliciting a small smile from Lumber.

Later that night, after Lumber had fallen asleep on the couch, Momma pulled out his file again. She scanned it carefully, flipping through pages until she reached his manufacturing information.

Manufactured in 2001 by Brookside Engineering.

She booted up her computer, the only one the yard had. It was slow, but after a few minutes, she had opened the search engine.

brookside engineering

At first, her search yielded nothing but the company’s website and a few useless articles about their history. She scanned the website but found nothing except embellished stories and contact information.

As she was about to give up and go to bed, a forum post caught her attention.

Brookside Engineering Needs to be Stopped!

The title instantly caught her attention. It took ages to load, but Momma's heart sank as soon as it did.

I used to work as a mentor train at Brookside, back when they bothered to hire mentors. I’ve seen some shit. Firstly, the trains are taught the bare minimum. Like, some of these kids could barely sign their names before they were sent off. My job was to teach them how to carry freight efficiently, but I barely had enough time to teach them how to go around corners without crashing. I did some digging before I left, and I’m pretty sure they’re using growth accelerants that were banned in the 80s. Does anyone else have experience with this?

The responses did not make her feel any better. A couple of repair trucks came forward with stories about underdeveloped trains, and a few freights claimed to be products of the company’s poor manufacturing. Apparently, many Brookside trains were scrapped within ten years of being manufactured.

Momma dug deeper as the moon slowly traveled through the sky. She clicked through links to lawsuits and failed investigations until her back was sore and she could barely keep her eyes open. 

It explained so much. He was so similar to her trainlet son because in many ways, he was a trainlet. Of course his peers would think he’s dimwitted if he never got a proper education. He wrote his name for Scrub because that’s all he knew how to write. Trainlets were supposed to get twelve hours of sleep, but the workday started at five in the morning and quiet hours only started well after the sun had set. No wonder he was so tired all the time.

Momma didn’t sleep that night. She was skating laps of her room when the work bell rang, signaling the start of the day. She sighed, running a hand through her hair.

It was Thursday, one of the days that she visited Rusty at the development laboratory. He was being built at the Starlight Manufacturing Company, one of the only train-owned manufacturers. The only reason Momma could afford such a high-quality engine commission was because the owner, Rayne, was her former racing partner. Rayne was a retired repair truck that Momma had initially bonded with due to their similar attitudes. They had only raced together for a few years, but their friendship had lasted decades. In fact, the success of Rayne’s company was largely thanks to Momma’s hefty investment. Yet another benefit of being a champion racer.

Quiet shuffling from the main room interrupted her thoughts. Momma wheeled through the open door, unsurprised to find Lumber silently folding the blankets he had been given the previous night. He looked up as Momma entered, waving as he began to fidget with the hem of the blankets.

“I’ve cleared your schedule for today,” Momma explained, skating into the kitchen. “I have someone I want you to meet, but we don’t leave until later. Get more sleep if you can.” She couldn’t keep herself from using the soft tone usually reserved for Rusty. In reality, she had taken him off the schedule entirely. If her suspicions were correct, he wouldn’t be working again for a long time. Lumber stared at her, brows furrowed and lips pursed slightly. 

She ignored his expression, instead opening the fridge and starting breakfast. She would usually have a bowl of oatmeal, but she liked to make something for Rusty on her days off. Today, she planned to make his favorite: a breakfast casserole with whatever leftovers she had in the fridge. The small engine liked to guess what was in it, although he often devoured it too quickly to taste it properly. A smile crept onto her face as she thought about her son and his ravenous appetite.

Lumber didn’t go back to bed like she’d hoped, but instead wandered over to the counter to watch her cook.

It was strange cooking for three people, but not unwelcome. Lumber watched her every move intently, and she found herself explaining what she was doing as she cooked. She saw him open his mouth several times, as if to speak, but he always stopped and withdrew into himself. This only strengthened Momma’s suspicions about his mutism. If she were to guess, he could speak, but chose not to.

Lumber practically inhaled the casserole, much to Momma’s amusement. She had to remind him several times to slow down before he choked. After he had finished, Momma packed up the remaining casserole for Rusty. She glanced at the clock. 7:45. Usually, she left at half past eight, but she didn’t want to rush Lumber during the long ride to the laboratory.

“Lumber,” she called. Lumber whipped his head up, still picking bits of casserole from his teeth. “I’d like to leave at 8, if that’s alright with you,” she suggested. Lumber nodded, standing up and skating toward the bathroom. 

Fifteen minutes later, Momma rolled up to the Central Station with Lumber in tow. Many trains milled about, lounging or making their way from one part of the yard to another. She exchanged plenty of short greetings, with a few sending their well-wishes to Rusty. Lumber got a few confused glances, but most trains knew better than to bring it up. Keyword being “most”.

“Why does he get a day off? He didn’t even finish his job yesterday!” Connie huffed, crossing her arms.

“He had a medical emergency,” Momma explained as calmly as she could manage. Lumber stared straight ahead, hands gripping her couplers tightly. Young trains often had big mouths and bigger egos, making them difficult to work with.

“Bullshit,” the freight scoffed. “He looks fine to me. He was probably faking it.” Lumber stood still as a statue, eyes boring a hole in Momma’s back.

Momma took a deep breath, shoving away all the things she wanted to say to Connie for the moment. “Connie, I hope you know how serious of an accusation that is,” Momma snapped. “One that is not remotely true. This is incredibly unprofessional, and if you continue this behavior, I’ll have no choice but to get Control involved,” she warned.

Connie growled, but backed down. “Momma’s boy,” she muttered as she rolled away, Flash following close behind. Momma rolled her eyes. She knew Connie was unprofessional, but playground insults were a new low.

Lumber’s grip on her couplers loosened slightly as the two freights left. Momma turned to look at him, but he refused to meet her gaze. She filed the incident away for later and continued to the station.

The ride to the laboratory was not dissimilar to the return trip from the repair station. Lumber kept up with her well, leaning into turns and braking in sync. He would make a fine racing partner someday.

The security truck waved as they approached, letting Momma in with barely a second glance. All the security knew her and her relationship with the owner at that point.

Momma took the familiar elevator to the development floor, excitement building in her chest. She nearly forgot about Lumber as she skated to the playroom, firmly knocking three times.

“Momma!” a familiar voice shouted from inside. She heard a small thump as something hit the door, followed by the sounds of a much bigger train approaching. The door opened, and Rusty bolted out, hitting her legs at full speed.

“Rusty!” Momma greeted, picking him up and kissing him on the forehead. He had gotten bigger since last week, and she wondered with sorrow and excitement if this would be the last time she could hold him like this.

“Hello, Momma. I heard you brought a friend?” Rayne smiled, stepping out of the now-open doorway. 

“That I did,” Momma replied, smiling softly at her old friend. She turned to Lumber, pulling Rusty– who was currently trying to climb onto her shoulders– back down so his arms hugged her neck. “Lumber, this is my son, Rusty. Rusty, this is Lumber.”

Rusty started wiggling, turning in her arms until he could stick one hand out toward Lumber. “Hi Miss Lumber!” he grinned, incredibly proud of himself. Lumber stared at Rusty, confused, before hesitantly reaching out to shake his hand.

“We’ve been working on that,” Rayne sighed, shaking her head in amusement. “He has all the prefixes down, but he forgets about the gender differences.”

Momma was about to correct Rusty, but to her surprise, Lumber chuckled silently. He smiled at Rusty, who grinned broadly in response.

Rusty turned back to Momma, eyes widening. “Do you have-”

“Yes, I have your casserole,” Momma reassured him. Rusty cheered, pumping his fist in the air. “But,” she interrupted. “I have to talk to Rayne about a few things first.”

Rusty deflated, gazing at her with the best puppy eyes he could muster. “I’m so hungry…” he groaned, rubbing his stomach. Momma knew for a fact that he wasn’t. Rayne had assured her that she always made sure he ate before visits.

“I know you are,” she sympathized, tapping him on the nose. “But, I have an idea. How about you show Lumber all your favorite things in the playroom while we chat?” she suggested. Rusty’s eyes lit up. He was a true extrovert and always delighted in telling new people all about his favorite things.

“Yes!” he shouted, wiggling until Momma put him on the ground. “Come on, Miss Lumber!” he demanded, grabbing Lumber’s hand and pulling him toward the door. Lumber shot Momma a panicked look, but she waved him off. He would be fine.

Rayne opened the door for Rusty and his hostage before fixing Momma with a worried look. Momma allowed her smile to drop, skating toward her former partner and letting her pull her through the door.

Rusty had already gotten to the swing, explaining exactly how to lean to propel himself upwards. Lumber listened intently, a small smile blossoming on his face. Momma breathed a sigh of relief. Although no train could resist Rusty’s charms, it would be a lie to say she wasn’t at least slightly worried.

“What’s wrong? You must have brought him for a reason,” Rayne asked, placing a hand on Momma’s shoulder. Momma sighed, pursing her lips.

She wasn’t sure where to begin. “Have you heard of Brookside Engineering?”

Rayne wrinkled her nose. “I’ve heard of it, yes. I’ve been suspicious of them for a while now, no reputable company can sell trains for that cheap.”

“It’s bad, Rayne. If I’m correct, it’s really bad ,” Momma lamented. “I wanted to get your opinion on this.”

“Woah, woah, back up. What exactly do you think this company is doing? Why did you bring Lumber?” Rayne placed a hand on her other shoulder, lowering her head to look Momma in the eyes.

Momma paused, thinking over her words. She hadn’t said her theory out loud before, and for whatever reason, she felt nervous to tell Rayne. She pushed that feeling aside. Neither of them was the type to beat around the bush, so she would say it straight. “I think he was developed too quickly.”

A heavy silence followed, broken up by Rusty loudly proclaiming his love for the different animals in the toybox. Rayne’s gaze was serious. She was passionate about the proper development of trains, a fact made obvious by her profession. “Why?”

Momma didn’t respond right away, instead digging into her bag and pulling out the stack of papers she had collected. Included in it were all of Lumber’s files and transcribed versions of whatever she could find online. She handed it to Rayne, who immediately began scanning them. “He’s always tired, he never speaks, and I’m not sure if he knows how to read,” she explained while Rayne flipped through the papers intently. “People keep saying he’s daft, but you know as well as anyone its not that simple.”

Rayne hummed, eyes widening as she reached the transcribed blog post. Another silence followed before her eyes snapped up to meet Momma’s. Her gaze carried an intensity Momma had rarely seen. “I’d like to do some tests if that’s alright. I might be able to find more information about his development,” Rayne suggested.

“I knew I could count on you,” Momma smiled gratefully.

Lumber didn’t protest when Momma suggested a health checkup, even though he seemed confused about why. Rayne made sure to explain everything she was doing and why, while Rusty happily recounted the step-by-step processes he had done many times before.

Momma let Rusty have his casserole while they waited for Rayne to compile the information. Momma took full advantage of their microwave, once again wishing she could get one of her own. Unfortunately, her shed simply did not have enough power unless she unplugged the fridge every time she used it. She had heavily considered the idea many times.

“Momma? Come over here please,” Rayne called, voice unusually quiet. Momma immediately stood, glancing over to see the repair truck standing by the door, pale as a sheet.

Momma briefly turned to Lumber. “Make sure he doesn’t choke,” Momma requested. Lumber nodded, giving her a firm thumbs-up before turning back to face Rusty. Momma skated quickly to Rayne. “What is it?”

Rayne shook her head in disbelief. “He- his blood tests show traces of gadoifibrate,” she explained. Momma gestured for her to continue. “It’s a growth accelerant. It was banned almost as soon as it was discovered; it tends to accelerate development unevenly, and that was in small doses,” she explained.

“How much did they use?” Momma asked, afraid to know the answer.

“I have reason to believe that he was developed over the course of nine months.”

Nine months. Momma felt sick. The standard development time of mass-produced freights was five years . Three years was the legal minimum for development, and Rayne was very firm in her belief that three years was far too short. Nine months was absurd. It was a wonder that he was even alive, much less in working condition.

“His body is as developed as it’s going to get,” Rayne continued. “Mentally, he’s not ready to work for at least another six years at an unaccelerated growth rate.”

Starlight, he was just a kid—no wonder she had felt so protective. “What should I do? I’ll obviously be pulling him from the workforce.”

“I would recommend–”

“Miss Lumber?” Rusty’s voice diverted Momma’s attention. “Are you okay?”

Both Rayne and Momma spun around. Rusty had abandoned the casserole dish, now standing directly in front of Lumber. 

Lumber sat cross-legged on the carpet, staring at the floor. His chest heaved, his breaths coming in wheezy gasps. His hands shook as he struggled to open the compartment above his hip.

Momma was at his side before she registered she was moving. She reached for his side, intending to help, but Lumber flinched away. He finally managed to yank the compartment open and pulled out his inhaler.

Momma watched as he breathed in the medicine, hands still shaking. Rusty was practically sitting on his lap; worry etched across the young engine’s face. Lumber’s breathing finally settled, and he hunched over, wrapping his arms around his stomach tightly. Momma reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder–

Lumber flinched hard , standing up suddenly. Rusty grunted as he was dumped onto the carpet, but was back on his feet just as quickly.

Lumber stared at her, and he looked terrified. Tears dripped out of his wide eyes; his mouth opened as he panted. He shrunk away from her outstretched hand as if–

As if she was going to hurt him.

“Lumber–” she started, but he turned away, schooling his expression into something more neutral and wiping at his face. He wheeled toward the door, yanking it open and rolling outside. Momma moved to follow, but Rayne threw out an arm. The repair truck shook her head before slipping through the door to follow him.

Momma ran a hand through her hair as the door quietly shut. Why was he so suddenly scared of her? Was it something she did?

“Momma?” a small voice piped up from below. She looked down to see Rusty clinging to her legs, brow furrowed. “Is Miss Lumber okay?”

Momma sighed, sitting down on the carpet. Rusty climbed into her lap, resting his head against her chest and leaning back to look up at her. “I’m… not sure, Rusty. What were you doing before I came over?”

“I was telling him a story, but I don’t think he was listening,” Rusty huffed. “I told him it was rude to listen when you weren’t talking to him, but he didn’t listen. Then he started breathing weird,” he explained.

Momma hummed, staring at the closed door. She itched to go find him herself, but Rayne was perfectly competent, and someone needed to stay with Rusty. She turned to Rusty. “Did you do anything fun this week?” she asked.

The little engine lit up, beginning to recount his hide-and-seek victory with the other trainlets. Momma listened intently, although part of her mind refused to focus on anything but Lumber. What had she said to make him so afraid?

The door creaked open about thirty minutes later. Momma looked up from the book she was reading to Rusty, unsurprised but relieved to see Rayne. She rolled into the room quietly, Lumber coupled up behind her.

Momma resisted the urge to check on him herself, partially because he still looked spooked and partially because of the little steam engine snoring on her lap. Lumber disconnected from Rayne near the door, staring at the ground and crossing his arms. Rayne wheeled over to Momma, kneeling on the ground.

“You should take him back to the yard,” Rayne spoke softly, beginning the process of gently removing Rusty from her lap. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning and we can talk about what to do.” The repair truck wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. Momma leaned into the hug, resting her head on Rayne’s shoulder. She sighed.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted. She didn’t have the space to house him but didn’t want to send him away. He might not want to stay with her after the day’s events.

“You’ll figure it out,” Rayne reassured her. “You always do.”

“Thank you, Rayne,” Momma smiled as the repair truck pulled Rusty into her arms. “That means a lot.”

“I’m happy to help, Momma.” Rayne finally stood up, offering a hand to the engine. Momma took it. “Now go take your kid home.”

“My kid?” Momma raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry, I must have misspoke,” Rayne apologized, eyes glimmering with mirth. Momma rolled her eyes, knowing Rayne well enough to know she always meant exactly what she said.

Momma pressed a kiss to Rusty’s forehead before turning to Rayne. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” she spoke softly, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. Rayne pushed her toward the door, but not before she nuzzled her forehead against Momma’s temples.

Momma sent one last smile to Rayne and Rusty before wheeling to the door. Lumber followed silently, refusing to meet her gaze.

The elevator ride was completely silent. Lumber leaned against the opposite wall, arms wrapped around his waist tightly. He stared at the floor, brows furrowed in what Momma could only assume was an anxious spiral.

She wanted to help. Starlight , she wished she could hug him and tell him everything would be alright. But she couldn’t. How he tensed every time she moved told her all she needed to know. So, as much as she despised it, she gave him space. 

The ride back was just as quiet. She was slightly worried he would refuse to go with her, so she was relieved when he grabbed her couplers without protest. He disconnected as soon as they stopped, skating down the ramp toward the freight shed. Momma sighed. A significant part of her had hoped he would be willing to stay over the night, the same part that protested letting him out of her sight.

Momma was about to return to her own shed when she spotted Connie and Flash standing outside the freight shed. Her heart dropped as Flash flung out an arm, stopping Lumber from going inside.

“Not happening, Momma’s boy. You can’t stay here if you don’t work,” Connie smirked. Lumber’s hands balled into fists, shoulders shaking slightly. He tried to shove past them, but Flash shoved back harder, causing him to stumble backward. “What? If you got something to say, then say it, freak!” Connie hissed, skating forward and shoving her face only centimeters from his. He shrunk back. Momma had seen enough.

“Connie!” Momma hollered, finally arriving at the scene. She grabbed the back of Connie’s chassis and pulled, letting her roll backward into Flash.

“Mind your damn business, steamer!” Connie growled.

Momma gripped the bridge of her nose. She had put up with Connie long enough. “I’m not tolerating this anymore. Connie, you’ve been incredibly disrespectful to me and your fellow freights. You’re fired,” she stated through gritted teeth.

Connie’s eyes widened as she sucked in a breath. “You- you can’t-” she started to protest angrily.

“I can,” Momma argued. “I am the yardmaster, and I have given you plenty of warnings and far too much grace. I’d recommend you start packing your things.”

Finally, Flash spoke up. “Momma, please-”

“That’s Miss McCoy to you,” Momma glowered. Flash shrunk back, holding Connie’s shoulders tightly. “I will talk to Control to transfer you as soon as possible. I expect you’ll be moved by the end of the week,” Momma explained coldly, turning away from Connie. She addressed Flash next. “You can stay if you’d like, but I expect you to be more respectful from now on. I can also make sure you and Connie are transferred to the same yard, if you’d prefer,” she explained. Despite how cruel they had been to Lumber, Momma didn’t have the heart to separate them.

“Mo- Miss McCoy, please,” Connie begged, her voice quieter than Momma had ever heard it.

“I’ve made up my mind. Go,” she ordered, pointing to the shed. Connie looked like she wanted to say more, but Flash tugged on her elbow. Her mouth shut with an audible click as she stormed into the shed.

Momma sighed, before turning to Lumber. He stood to the side, staring at her in disbelief. She considered her options. She didn’t want to force him to stay with her for the night, but he wouldn’t be safe staying in the freight shed. “Come with me, please,” she quietly asked.

Lumber paused for a moment, before nodding stiffly. He rolled silently behind her as they moved to her shed, bumping into her every time they stopped.

She was surprised when he uncoupled right before the shed. He skated to the bulletin board outside her door, where all the schedules were posted. He looked at it for a moment, waving Momma over. She had removed him from the schedule the previous night.

She rolled over, giving him space. He pointed at himself, and then the board. His gaze was intense, almost pleading. “You won’t be on the schedule for the next couple of days. Doctor’s orders,” she explained. Lumber shook his head, before pointing further down at the following weeks. Momma pursed her lips. She had been hoping he wouldn’t notice his absence from the schedule for a few more days. 

Momma sighed, rolling slightly closer to him. He stiffened. “Lumber…” she pondered the best way to explain the situation. “You won’t be working anymore.”

Lumber staggered back as if he’d been hit. Momma instinctively reached for him, but he flinched back, eyes wide. He desperately gestured between himself and the schedule. Gasping cries tore from his throat as he fell to his knees, lurching forward to grab Momma’s hand. She was too stunned to do anything but let him pull her forward. Teary blue eyes met hers, his mouth forming the same word again and again and again. Please.

Momma had no idea what to do. Only moments ago he was flinching away from her, but now he grasped her hand like she was the only thing keeping him alive. 

Oh.

Oh.

Brookside trains were often scrapped within ten years of being manufactured.

He thought she was taking him off the workforce because he was defective. He thought she was going to have him scrapped .

Momma fell to her knees, grabbing Lumber and pulling him into a hug. He tensed further, breath hitching. “Oh Lumber, honey, you’re not being scrapped. I would never do that to you,” she reassured him, her words choked.

Lumber’s sobbing continued, twice its previous intensity. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her shoulder. Momma was once again reminded of how young he was. She had some choices for the engineers who made him think he would be scrapped before he was fully developed.