40 - 18 - Owl Sight

The old train yard and final station stop had not been in operation since, like, my grandmother was a kid. Now, it was only a vast arena of sharp edges from which to get lockjaw. A place where teenagers hung and had wild parties and did things they could get arrested for.

We reached the acre or so of dilapidated metal train parts. And saw nothing you wouldn't expect to see in such a place. Even with my superior owl vision, I could make out no suspicious footprints in the dirt or tufts of blue fur stuck to jagged pieces of boxcar.

And the place was quiet. Too quiet.

I circled lower, hoping for some shred of evidence that Mertil was being held on this site. Again, nothing. Hundreds of empty boxcars, each sixty feet long. The occasional caboose or flatcar. Some cattle cars lying on their sides. A locomotive or two.