The Long Train

"Mine," said Noah. "All the tracks are mine."

He sat in the treehouse, built into the widest branch of the leaning tree. Around him lay every piece of his wooden train set. Noah wanted one thing. He wanted a track so long it would reach from the window to the door.

Lucy climbed in with her backpack. The lantern outside glowed blue, so the night would stay dry. She had come to watch the train, and she had brought a cookie.

"Can I lay one piece?" she asked.

Noah put his arms around the pile. "Not yet."

He tried building fast, so there would be no time to share. Click, click, click. The track grew. But it stopped at the big wooden bridge, the heaviest piece of all. Noah pushed it. It did not move. He pulled it. It did not move.

Then he tried tricks. He gave Lucy the tiny caboose. "You can have this," he said.

Lucy turned it over. "It has no track," she said.

Noah looked at the caboose. He looked at the bridge. He looked at the long gap in the middle of the floor.

The gap was bigger than he was.

"Lucy," he said slowly. "Will you help me lift it?"

Going first felt like stepping onto a very high branch. But Lucy put her cookie down and took one end. Noah took the other.

"One, two, three, up!"

The bridge lifted. It wobbled. Then it dropped, BOOM, right in the middle of the track, and the whole floor shook.

They both laughed.

"Now you lay a piece," said Noah.

Lucy laid a curve. Noah laid a straight. Lucy laid a curve again, and the track bent around the lantern's blue light and reached the door.

Noah set the engine on the rails and gave it a push. Chug, chug, chug, it rolled over the bridge, with the caboose behind it. Lucy broke the cookie in two and handed him half.

Outside, the lantern glowed blue, and the little train kept going round.