Chapter 95 - The Station With Two Entrances
Adrian sent a photograph of a cardboard train station from Vermont after Dorothy confirmed Leo was happy for me to see it. The structure had two doors on opposite sides and a roof patched with silver tape.
“He insists the dinosaur must be able to enter without walking past the ticket desk,” Adrian wrote.
I smiled. Then, because I was an architect and couldn't help myself, I asked why.
“He says the dinosaur gets nervous around crowds.”
I thought of the penthouse elevators, guards, cameras, and the security arrangements Adrian once assumed made everyone feel safe. The dinosaur was perhaps smarter than all of us. He wanted a second way out.
I drew a tiny floor plan of the station with a broad platform, two clear entrances, and space for the conductor's hat. I sent it to Dorothy with a note asking her to let Leo decide which parts to use.
A call came later that evening. Dorothy had propped the tablet beside the shoebox station while Leo added a ramp made from folded cardboard.
“Claire!” he announced. “The dinosaur says your door is too big.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because he's little.”
“Do you think people who are bigger than the dinosaur might also use the station?”
He considered that. “Maybe a moose.”
“Then we should probably leave the door big enough for the moose.”
He laughed and ran off to find a plastic animal.
Adrian came into view, looking awkward on a couch that had not been selected by a designer. He wore an ordinary sweater. There was glue on one sleeve.
“He's been doing this for three hours,” he said.
“Did you finish the meeting you had scheduled?”
“No. I moved it. And before you say anything, I know that doesn't deserve applause.”
I looked at him for a moment. “I wasn't going to say anything.”
“That's almost worse.”
The call ended when Leo insisted he needed tape. I stayed at the table, tracing the shape of the two doorways in my sketchbook.
May you like
My own baby would someday need ways in and out of conversations, friendships, and rooms. I wanted to give her doors, not instructions disguised as doors.
I tore the page out and placed it with Leo's first train picture. Neither would ever enter a trust agreement. They were simply drawings made for a child who loved trains.
