The holidays were always a busy time aboard the Hypersonic Express: So many people in a hurry, carrying pies, jackets, and babies, and trying in vain to not get in everyone else’s way.

On this particular holiday morning, a rough-worn man in a retro Jean jacket boarded the bus intent upon seeing his kids for the first time in five years. He was nervous. He imagined that everyone on the train could tell where he’d been for the last never-ending years and were trying to scoot as far away from him as possible.

He wanted to reassure these people — to practice what he’d tell his kids — that he wasn’t dangerous. He hadn’t actually hurt anyone. And he had sworn it would never happen again, but he already wasn’t so sure. These were hard times, and money and jobs were in short supply, especially for someone with a record.

He thought about his kids and almost cried at the thought of how grown up they would be now. His little girl would be ten, and his baby boy would be six. He’d already missed so much of their lives. He realized then that his son probably wouldn’t even recognize him, and his stomach twisted in his gut. He knew things could never go back to the way they had been before, and part of him suddenly wasn’t sure he wanted to see his babies.

He had only talked to his wife off and on in prison, but she’d never really suggested she wanted to continue things when he got out. From his pocket he pulled the picture of his children he’d received while inside. He held back a sob about the life he had missed.

Then he put the picture away with a sigh. It was too late, he told himself. Five years too late. He couldn’t face the rejection in their faces when they didn’t recognize him, or when they cried because he tried to pick them up. He got off at the next stop and boarded a train in the opposite direction.

Maybe next year he’d try again.