A thin wisp of super-heated steam was streaming from one of the relief valves atop the steam dome.

When he dropped, his eyes were watering, with traces of frozen tears on his eyelashes. “The Dome relief valve is open. We are losing steam pressure.”

“We hit it with a hammer while it is this cold,” Silas let the sentence hang as he waited for Karl to finish wiping his face with a rag. The metal might sheer off, leaving a steam leak that would prevent the engine building steam pressure to operate the drive pistons.

“Yeah, you’re right.” Studying the gages, Karl saw no suggestion the steam pressure was dropping. With any luck, the valve would seat itself as the locomotive jostled on the tracks.

Outside the cab, the storm grew in strength, the onslaught of rushing steel having virtually no effect on the snow and wind. It was easy to get lost in the cyclone of snow before the bright lamp at the head of the boiler. Falling snow rushed past in ever thickening clouds, a mirage that only dwelt in the cold of a winter storm. The mirage disappearing when the train rushed past a stationary figure in a mass of light, buffeting air and heat. The long line of boxcars, gondolas and a caboose hurtled past the figure as it slowly turned its head to gaze at the train. A wide-brimmed hat upon its head seemed a relic of past decades.

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When it exhaled, its breath did not steam in the cold air. It sniffed the air, then moved into the clouds of snow to be lost from sight.

John felt a sudden stab of cold, so intense it seemed to freeze the very air. He moved to the pot-bellied stove and added a few more chunks of wood, then warmed his hands over the top of the stove. Looking at the cupboards, he saw a fine trace of frost artfully decorating the painted wood.

It was a dreadful storm, but this was something John had never seen. While he watched, the frost melted away as if it had never existed. He touched the top of the stove with a finger and jerked it away from the heat.

What the hell had happened? He wondered.