 They're waiting for what seems like an eternity. She's clutching her one-way ticket to heaven. He's still blaming her for having the ticket that could have been his. This is your fault, he says, the first sound to break their silence for hours. That ticket should be mine. I'm sorry, she says, knowing that an apology won't fix or change anything. Maybe I can talk to someone when I get there. Maybe it's not too late, but they both know that it is. She has a ticket. He doesn't. Nothing they do now will change that. She's about to say something else when they both hear it. The train is coming closer and closer. They hear it approaching. She holds her ticket even tighter. The train lights appear. Remember me? He shouts over the roar of the speeding train. She barely hears him. His voice drowned out by the sound of the train as it races into the station without slowing down. This train isn't slowing down. The train isn't stopping. They look at one another as the train races pass, realizing that this is it. Heaven's not something that will rescue them. It's a choice they can make here and now.