The carriages were the sort found in any number of countries in any part of the world where trains have a presence. Past its prime, with paint peeling off every surface and new paint haphazardly slapped on, the carriages looked and felt an oily brown.

A sickly fermented smell permeated the compartment where the grey, rumpled man was sitting on a seat patchy with mysterious dried-up liquids. He was the only person in the compartment – the seat beside him and the two in front were empty of passengers.

“Why does the lush green countryside have to be so interminably boring?” he said to no one in particular, staring out the window.

A flurry of activity occurred, as if to answer his question. The door opened and a young woman swept through it like a hurricane. She flounced into the seat across from the man, stretched her arm to close the door loudly and then sat back, glowering in his general direction.

“Men are such pigs,” she announced. She followed this startling comment by dragging a large journal and an old fashioned fountain pen out of her bag. She started scribbling violently into the book.

The man, bemused by her sudden appearance and behaviour, said nothing. He continued his observation of the dull scene rolling smoothly by. Looking out of the window was like sitting at the microfilm reader, he thought.

“How do you spell ‘loathsome cretins’?” the girl asked. The man supplied her with the correct answer, never taking his eyes off the view. She wrote a few more lines and then ended with a flourish, closing the book with a confident thump.

“Well,” she said, “that’s over and done with.”

“That’s wonderful news. I’m glad you could join me,” the man said.

“Oh,” the girl replied, flustered. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually barge in unannounced on strangers.”

“I’m sure.”

“May I have this seat, then?”

“Like I said before, I’m glad you could join me,” the man said, straightening in his seat to look at her. This time, she could see that his eyes were twinkling with mirth.

“Oh. Yes. Thank you,” she said again, uselessly. She glanced at him, seeming to absorb his entire essence. He was well-dressed but slightly grubby in appearance. His greying hair and pale, tired face made him look older than he was. Her eyes softened as she looked into his eyes and he assumed it was due to his sickly appearance.

The train, at the point, proceeded to manoeuvre a series of curves in the track and the rocking of the carriage and squealing of the brakes became more pronounced. The two passengers stayed silent, as though allowing for the train to concentrate on the task at hand. Or perhaps, they simply preferred to eschew irrelevant conversations about the weather.

Suddenly, the girl said, “Lets play a game.”

The man, feigning indifference, replied, “What sort of ‘a game’?”

“I ask you a question about yourself and you tell me the answer. It needn’t even be the truth. You just have to make it interesting.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “That is the most fascinating proposition I’ve received in a while. You must truly be bored.”

“I can’t write now. I’ll get motion sickness,” the girl said unhappily, fingering her journal.

“Give me an example of a question and maybe I’ll play,” the man said, humouring her.

“Alright then,” she said. “What was the most humiliating situation you have ever faced?”

"You do get straight to the point, don't you? You don't suppose the question is too personal?" he chuckled.

"Better than probing impudently about one’s health," she said, indignantly.

"Whatever is wrong with asking someone about their health?" he asked, more curious than irritated.

"Well, if you're ‘fine and good’, that just makes it so much wasted air. If you’re not fine, but all you have is a minor ailment; more wasted air.

“Should you be suffering some chronic, fatal illness however, that would just leave me with weak sympathies and not much else in terms of conversation," she said rapidly, faltering at the end.

The man considered. "You do make an excellent point. Also, you may add, from my point of view, social niceties confine me to saying 'I'm fine, thank you. And you?'

“People apparently dislike knowing the truth about your condition, especially if you're in a terrible place,” the man continued. He paused, deep in thought.

"It isn't nice to burden people with your problems," the girl supplied helpfully. She sighed with great melodrama. The man nodded, absently.

“Very well, then,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Let us play this game of yours, but…,” he pointed his index finger at the girl, “there must be rules to observe.”

"Rules?" she asked, slightly contemptuously.

"A minor rule; whoever asks, answers first," he said.

"Fair enough," she said, happily, glad to be doing something at last.

"So, answer your question, tell me what this humiliating situation was and I'll tell you mine," the man said, smiling and settling comfortably in his seat.

She didn't even pause before answering. "I was always a bit of a clumsy oaf; a terrible thing for a girl, as we’re always expected to be graceful and beautiful. So when I was invited to a dinner and symphony by the most handsome boy in my class, I very nearly fainted with disbelief and joy.

“We dined in a romantic, candlelit restaurant where even the lowliest waiter had his nose higher in the air than the richest clientele. The food was fit for angels and the conversation witty. He made me feel like a princess in her best finery.

“And then, we made our way to the concert. There was a guest orchestra in town and it was a full house. We were shown to balcony seats overlooking the orchestral pit. You know the kind," she looked at the man to see if he was listening.

He nodded, "You're there to be seen, rather than to observe proceedings."

She too, nodded, satisfied by his interest. "Again, I felt on top of the world, like I was royalty. The orchestra played beautifully, I can’t remember what, though.

"There was a part that sounded like cannons and Gods fighting in a feisty summer storm. It was loud: the drums were rolling, the cymbals crashing, the strings were all over the place, and the brass section resembled the horns of Gondor played by the heavenly Host.

“And then everything quietened to a gentle lament. It happened so fast that my ears were still rushing and my heart thudding in my chest from the exciting parts. It was so quiet in the concert hall. You can imagine everyone was sitting there with bated breath, wondering what would happen next. I strained so hard that all I could hear, or rather, feel were the vibrations on the lowest notes of the double bass. And then…”

The girl paused dramatically, her arms in the air like a music conductor at the ready.

"Out of my belly came a loud, unladylike growl.”

"What?"

"After the wonderful dinner, my digestion system decided to do its job. It was only a gurgle but it sounded horribly like flatulence," the girl said, throwing her hands up in frustration. "And it chose to do it when everyone was listening!"

"Just how loud was this gurgle?" the man asked, holding back his laughter.

"The conductor looked up and frowned at me. It was the darkest look ever cast in my direction. I think I spoilt his grand climax. There were people in the front few rows staring at me too. I couldn't see the rest on account of the darkness.

“I remember sinking as low as I could in my seat. Needless to say, I was never invited out again by that 'fine' young gentleman," she said, snorting.

The man laughed, slapping his knee. "Forgive me, but that was a fine tale," he said. "I'm not sure I can top that."

"It was funny. I’ll admit that now,” the girl said, laughing as well. “You needn’t top my story. I was so mortified when it happened that I don’t think I’d like anyone to have a worse experience. Tell me yours; anything you can remember.”

She waited patiently while the older man gave it some thought. Finally, he said, "I've got it!"

He looked out the window and began his story. "When I was a boy, I used to go to an all-male boarding school. It was quite fun, for the most part.

"There was, however, an incident that happened in my first year that stood out, in several levels of humiliation and pain. In many ways, that incident shaped the way I am today.

“My first month there, I observed an odd… ritual, practiced by the older boys. Whenever some poor chap were to suffer his birthday – for some sadistic reason, the teacher liked to announce it to the class in the morning – he would, come recess time, find himself in the middle of a scrum of boys, his back thumped painfully every which way. It was supposedly in good fun and at first glance, it would look like the other boys were merely congratulating the boy.

“But occasionally, the situation would escalate out of control. The first time I witnessed this behaviour, the birthday boy was so frightened that he cried to be let out of the circle. Due to his cowardice, the other boys punished him by stripping him of his clothing…”

The girl interrupted with a cry. “That’s awful,” she exclaimed.

“Had he been a good sport, he would have kept his underwear,” the man said, smiling faintly. “It was the law of the land, so to speak; the culture practiced by young boys, particularly in institutions like the one I was in. I’ve no doubt that you’d find a similar practice these days.

“The rule of the game was for him to put up with it and for them not to hurt him. Teachers view it as rough-housing, and many condone it, or if not, they turn a blind eye to it. I’ve been told once, that the practice was a way to gauge the value of the man, or boy, as the case may be.”

The girl snorted rudely, but did not say anything, so the man continued with his tale. “It was inevitable that I had to face the gauntlet on my birthday that year.

“I found myself circled by a bunch of boys who started thumping my back. Some of them had brooms. Now, you have to understand that I was not a very popular lad to begin with. It was my opinion that they would not uphold their end of the bargain and spare me from injury. I did the cowardly thing and ran.

"So there I was, a small boy running around the courtyard with a whole gaggle of boys chasing me, whooping and yelling war cries. It was quite the scene. Soon, other boys joined in on the chase. I ran and I ran, and pretty soon, I found myself getting exhausted. Between gasps, I started to wonder what would happen to me if they caught up.

"Faced with no choice and wanting to preserve my skin (and ironically, some dignity), I ran into a classroom full of older boys, and to my horror, their teacher was there. I stood there, confused, when finally, the other boys showed up. They stopped short of the threshold and then, one of them yelled, ‘Birthday boy ran away!’

"It was a death knell, if ever there was one. Everyone in the classroom, including the teacher, was looking at me with derision. It was a matter of honour to them, but to me, it was all about survival. I started imagining my life there in the school for the next few years and my heart fell. I had to do something to protect myself.

"So then, I loudly announced to the class and to the boys listening outside, 'Did you want to see my birthday suit? Well, here it is!' and then I promptly stripped all the way to my skin, standing defiantly in front of everyone.”

“You didn’t!” the girl gasped out loud.

“I did,” the man nodded, chuckling. “It was the most humiliating thing I’d ever done, but it did keep me safe the following years.”

“How so?” the girl asked.

"Well, the boys didn't bother me again after that. I'm not sure if I had their complete respect, though. In fact, I think they were quite afraid of me. Still, I did gain some kind of a hero reputation amongst the less popular boys. It ended well."

The man looked out the window at the darkening sky and drummed his fingers on the seat beside him.

"I think we tied on that one," the girl said, finally. "Though, I suppose no one could really win it, if it was at all a contest.”

“Oh?” the man said.

The girl shrugged. “Everyone is equal when it comes to feeling shame. There can’t be losers – the situation is pathetic enough to have those – and certainly, there are no winners.”

"Interestingly put," the man said.

The girl watched as the sky changed from the bright blue of the afternoon to the pinkish rose of twilight. The carriage lights were not yet turned on. Shadows coalesced in the corners and grew steadily, slowly inking the seats and their occupants.

“How strange it is, when something changes,” she said out loud. The man said nothing in reply.

"Have you ever felt strongly that something does not quite belong?" she asked.

"I'm not sure I follow," the man replied. "Do you mean brown socks in a black ensemble?"

The girl smiled wanly. "Supposing you had something for a long time, say, an outfit, or a possession. It plays an important part in your life; often you don't even notice it, because it is so closely ingrained to the overall pattern.

"What if one day, something happens and all of a sudden, that thing doesn't quite belong any longer? It becomes ... wrong."

"That is a strange question. Not one I've heard before," the man said, his face darkening, becoming inscrutable. The girl sat back, losing herself in the shadows.

"I've always written in diaries – journals, I call them now,” she said. “When I was a little girl, I had a pretty one; the pages were light blue in colour, with bright butter-yellow edgings. There was a gorgeous relief of a sunflower on the cover. It made writing difficult on the left-side pages, but that didn’t stop me from using the diary constantly.

"One day, I ran eagerly to my room, hoping to write about my day in school. But there, I found my little brother, who was bedridden for a week. He had found my diary and was using it as his crayon doodle pad!

“I was sick to my stomach. I screamed and shouted at him. By the time our mother found us, I had him cowering under the sheets crying. Poor thing! He didn’t understand why I was so angry.

“My mother brokered a peace agreement between us. My brother was not sufficiently interested in my life at that point to bother reading the diary (something I sometimes felt quite indignant about). And he’d only decorated a few pages, so mother tried to fix the diary by cutting out those pages with a knife.

"Despite all that though, I was never able to look at my diary the same way. I abandoned it shortly after and started a new one. For some reason, it felt tainted, somehow," she said.

“Like it wasn’t yours any longer,” the man said softly.

The girl looked up, surprised. “Yes, that’s exactly what it felt like.”

She looked at the man expectantly, waiting for him to uphold his part of the bargain. He said uncertainly, "I'm not sure if I should share my tale. It's neither funny, nor touching; some would find it disturbing.”

The man lapsed into silence once more. The girl moved forward in her seat, bringing her face to the light. "I'm not a bunch of rowdy schoolboys chasing you around the courtyard. You don't really have to tell me if you don't want to," she said, quite intently. "But I am interested in what you have to say."

The man considered. They were strangers, not even known to each other by their first names. Once, he’d introduced himself to a fellow traveller and instantly felt awkward, as though he had broken an unspoken understanding between transients.

He could tell her his secret, unburden his heart, and then they’d go their separate ways. It needn’t be the truth, she had said at the beginning. Perhaps she would disbelieve. Perhaps he could let her believe that he was making it up.

The man placed his right leg gingerly on the seat beside the girl, inadvertently blocking her exit from the compartment. His movements startled her.

"I need the light," he said, by way of explanation. And then he took off his right shoe and sock. Soon, his foot was naked, illuminated by the soft glare of the setting sun.

He grabbed the foot and wiggled it about. Then he faced the girl, who was sitting quiet as a mouse, holding her breath. "This," he said, pointing. “This is not my foot."

He heard a sharp intake of breath from the girl's direction; more of a squeak. She pulled herself deeper into her seat, into the darkness.

"Well, whose is it then?" the voice said softly from the shadows.

He wondered if she was playing at sarcasm, but then decided that she was taking him seriously. So he replied, "I don't know."

"They seem to belong to different people though," he continued.

"You saying that you have more than one foot that isn't yours?" the girl asked. Strangely, the man detected some humour in her voice.

"There is a change that happens. And when it does, only one alien foot appears to take the place of mine,” he said, tentatively. “But it has happened on numerous occasions.”

“How does it happen?”

The man stopped short. Her reaction was quite unexpected; he didn’t think she’d actually be interested. He decided to take the plunge, to tell her the entire story. “I could be talking to someone, reading the papers, or asleep in bed, and another foot would appear in place of mine, without presentiment or fanfare once it is there.

“I only know that one moment, my own foot is there and the next, it is gone. I particularly hate it when the change occur mid-stride.”

“Is it always the right foot?”

“Yes, always the right,” the man replied. "I view it as a blessing, really. Imagine if it was both my feet."

"That would make walking quite difficult.”

"Quite," the man said almost cheerfully, warming up to the girl’s line of inquiry. "As it is, I find it difficult enough trying to walk with only my left foot in my control."

"What is it like, walking in that manner?”

"I suppose, rather like being on crutches. If I concentrate hard enough, after awhile, I'm able to walk properly, almost normally. But I can't feel anything on the right foot."

"What do you feel then?"

"I have a slight sensation that the wrong foot is there and I know when I'm applying pressure on it, as I walk. But I suspect that the latter feeling is due to the pressure on my ankles, where the wrong foot ends and my real leg begin."

"You seem to have given it quite a bit of thought."

"Well, I don’t really have a choice in the matter, do I? Didn't you obsess somewhat about your diary, after your brother had usurped it?"

"Yes, I did. I suppose you're right. It would be difficult to think about much else, if somebody else's foot was attached to your leg. May I ask then: what happened to your own foot?"

"I… I don't know."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

They sat there in renewed silence. The man allowed his body to sway to the movement of the carriage. His thoughts focused now on the loud demonic shrieks as brakes were applied, and then on the rumble and roar of the wheels on the track as it continued unhindered. He imagined himself riding a dragon, buffeted this way and that in air currents. They were losing more light and even the narrow ray that was illuminating the wrong foot was starting to turn purple.

"Are they all male feet?" the question came suddenly.

“I would hope so. No women should be saddled with a foot like mine,” the man said with humour.

“And are they all shaped similarly?”

"Well, yes. They look just like mine. Sometimes there may be a callus there that I didn’t have, or disgustingly, a wart. And once in a while, it looks slightly bent, as though touched by arthritis."

"Ah."

The man felt a touch of anger. "Are you trying to insinuate that I'm making it up? That I'm imagining it? Are you saying that this is really my foot and that I'm ... crazy?"

“No, no,” came the terrified response. “I was just wondering ... I was hoping I could help. That, maybe if I knew more ..."

"I see," the man said, mollified. "I'm sorry. I do tend to get quite upset about this matter."

"Quite understandable, I'm sure," the voice came softly from the corner. "You said that it had happened several times before."

"Yes, quite right," the man said.

"So that means that your own foot came back. How did that happen?"

"I waited, usually. And one day it just shows up."

"You just waited; for how long?”

"Not long. If I’m lucky, only a few hours, if not… I’ve had to wait about a week once."

"And how long has it been since you got this foot?"

The man looked troubled. "This one's gone on far too long. I've had it for close to a month now."

"Oh dear," the voice said. "I suppose... Couldn't you learn to get used to it?"

"I've tried," the man exclaimed. "I've tried ignoring it. I’ve tried accepting it into my life. I’ve used mantras, spells from obscure books and witches, herbs… everything!”

Quite miserably, the man said, "I've failed at everything. Short of cutting it off, I'm not sure what to do about it any longer."

The air was heavy in the compartment. The man suddenly realized how difficult it was for him to breathe. He started, quite suddenly. "Cut it off! That's the key," he said, excitedly.

"Wha...?"

"It's perfect. A brilliant idea, don't you see?" the man continued, still excited. He had never been this close to the solution before.

"The one time in my life where I've taken things into my own hands, everything turned out well. Granted, it was embarrassing and I ended up looking quite foolish in front of everyone, but I did gain the respect of the other boys. They left me alone,” he said.

"Maybe..." he faltered, as if unsure, and then continued with more strength, “maybe if I scared it away, it wouldn't come back again. It'll leave me alone."

"I don't know," the voice said dubiously.

"It is rather unusual approach, but then, so is having another man's foot attached to my leg. I have to do this, don’t you see?"

"I think I understand, to a point," the voice said. "What are you going to do?"

"Well," the man stopped short, not quite sure how to proceed. He bent down and retrieved the briefcase that was lying by his feet. He opened it and tossed out the contents. There was nothing in there that was of use to him. No knives, not even a penknife or a razor blade. He tossed the briefcase aside, heaving a sigh of frustration.

And then, the vanishing light chanced upon the journal and fountain pen on the seat in front of him. He grabbed the fountain pen quickly, afraid that the girl would stop him in the act. He encircled the pen with his fists and raised his arms in the air, almost as though he was preparing to conduct a sacrifice.

Suddenly he was knocked out of his seat. A horrible screeching sound filled his brain like banshees released at a rave. The man tried to balance himself but found that the floor to the carriage was still bucking.

He couldn’t understand what was happening, but he knew that he had to do something about the foot. The pen was still in his right hand, so he brought it down hard. He could feel the pen give as it went through flesh. He did not feel a thing. He stabbed downwards again, harder this time, and again, he felt the pen pierce through flesh.

The man continued, again and again. He could hear, somehow, over the squealing of the brakes and the screams of passengers, the spurting of liquid; or maybe he felt it on his hands.

Finally, he stabbed downwards again, but this time felt a sharp pain on his right foot. His right foot!

He moaned as stars burst inside his head as the pain from the foot travelled to his nerve centre. But he was elated. It worked!

Dimly, he remembered the girl. “I did it,” he croaked to the darkness. “It worked. I did it! I did it!”

“I did it,” he shouted again. “I got my foot back. I did it!”

There was no reply. The man was alone in the compartment.