A rivulet of sticky juice trickled down her inner arm. She smelt it before she felt it – a somehow soft and prickly odor, not sweet per se, uncomfortable in its unfamiliarity. There were three stops to go. She could make it to Reinyolk Bey, where the majority of the carriage would empty out onto the platform. Maybe no one would notice. And then just two stops to home. She clasped a hand onto the remaining fruit under her jacket to make sure they’d be safe – another breakage and she’d be done for, besides, she could not afford to lose another. The carriage drew in to the Bey. No one got off.