The dots and dashes of the telegraph machine rang on in my ears for hours afterwards. I began to translate words I heard around me, spoken by complete strangers on the train speeding to Winnipeg, into Morse Code. An old man two seats behind me complained to his daughter about everything. The rickety train. The cows we passed, chewing grass serenely, not bothered by the sound of technology. The glue he used on his dentures. I will never get old. I will die young, just like she did, and people will send out an urgent, lengthy monologue
in telegram form.