The Station Master – Part 1: Points Failure

The snow began at noon, and by two the points were frozen.

"They always freeze," said Florian. "It's the north side."

"Is there a heater?"

"There is a shovel."

Mirjam stared at him. She was thirty-two, a new dispatcher fresh from the city, in a pristine red-and-grey uniform and a pair of boots that had never been tested. He was thirty-six, the station master of Alp Rosa, in a worn blue coat with a signal lamp swinging from his belt, broad, bearded, entirely unflappable.

The little halt sat on a ledge above a glittering valley, with a single platform, a wooden hut and a mountain railway that curled away into the clouds. The 15:14 to Davos was due in forty minutes. The points were solid ice.

"You are the dispatcher," said Florian. "You tell me what to do."

She hesitated, then took off her gloves. "Shovel. Hot water. Salt, if there is any."

"There is salt."

"Then we start there."

For thirty minutes, they dug and poured and chipped in the howling wind. Her fingers froze. His beard turned white. When the final iron tongue clicked free, they both fell back on the platform, panting, snowflakes in their eyelashes.

"You did well," said Florian.

"We did."

"The 15:14 will be four minutes late."

"Four?"

"That is very good for the north side."

She laughed, a startled gasp, and he smiled, a slow warm crinkle of his eyes. The train rounded the bend with a great clatter, lights blazing, and drew into the station.

"Can I ask you something?" said Mirjam, as it pulled out.

"Yes."

"Why did you hand me the shovel?"

"Because you asked what to do," said Florian. "Most people don't."

"Green?" she said, a signal word.

"Green," said Florian, smiling. "Very green. Come inside. The stove is lit."

Continue the story: Part 2 – All Clear.