The Sunburned Tram Car

Tobin liked a tram car to feel steady and cool. That was how he knew a day was going right. He stood in the middle aisle of the Puffcap Tramline’s mint-and-berry-striped car, one hand on a brass rail, checking that the sacks of flour, bundled coats, and sleepy passengers all rode safely toward the next sky station.

Then a hard gust whipped through the open side.

The shade awning over the car gave a loud rip, and bright sun poured in like a lantern turned upside down. The puffcap seats—soft round seats covered in pale mushroom cloth—began to bake. A warm smell rose from the buns in Pippa’s little cart, and even the brass rail under Tobin’s hand felt hot.

“Dearie me,” said Pippa, standing on her crate beside the cart. “That sun means business.”

Mina, who was leaning forward in her berry-striped scarf, pointed at the nearest seat. “It’s going shiny!” she said, as if that made it more exciting.

Tobin looked down the narrow aisle. The car was full, and the piles of cargo left almost no room to move. If he waited, the whole tram would turn into an oven. He could already feel the heat climbing. People would need shade, buns would need care, and the stacked cargo might have to be shifted before it all got too hot to touch.

He drew in a slow breath and looked at the crowded car, then at the torn awning flapping in the sun. He would have to choose fast what to move first.