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The total blackout inside the lounge car of the Amtrak westbound train as it entered the tunnel caused an immediate change in its emotional atmosphere. For a long moment, the passengers were not talking, they were not screaming, they were not even audibly questioning the darkness. The clickety-clack of the wheels on the tracks seemed amplified as they sped through the tunnel. Time seemed suspended. But reality would return with a jolt.

In the darkness, it was harder for some people to keep their balance. Someone fell, then another. Shouts of Hey! and Watch it! rang out, and suddenly it seemed that everyone was talking and moving and falling at once. People tripped over one another, and those struggling to stay out of the way somehow added to the confusion. The tunnel was long, and to the passengers of the pitch black lounge car, the darkness and growing chaos made it seem even longer.

Finally, the train emerged from the tunnel. Through the windows, the light of a full moon illuminated a tangled mess of bodies on the floor of the car. Those who were still standing were amazed at the scene. In the dim light they immediately started lending hands and arms to get the other passengers back on their feet.

As the pile of people diminished, the little community began to see the comedy of the situation. Laughter crept back into the conversations. No one seemed injured, and the party attitude was taking hold again. Spirits were lifted higher when the electricity suddenly came back on. Bright light flooded the car, and the refrigerator again hummed. A collective sigh of relief was heard in the car. The floor was almost clear, now, but the last of the fallen passengers was still down.

"Sir? Need a hand up?" asked the man in the tweed jacket. He bent down closer. "Sir? Are you OK?"

The other passengers stopped chatting.

"Sir?"

The passenger on the floor did not respond. He remained slumped on his side. A black baseball cap was on the floor next to him, flattened, bearing a visible footprint. The man trying to help him looked up. A circle of faces stared down at him, expectantly. He touched the man on the shoulder and shook gently, as if trying to wake a sleeping child. Getting no response, he glanced up at the peering faces, then gently rolled the man over. The bearded face was stone still.

Finally, the bartender said, "I'm calling for help!" "He needs help. Is anyone here a doctor?"

No affirmative responses came, but suggestions started popping out.

"Stand back."

"Give him air."

"Call 911!"

"How do you dial 911 on a train?"

"Doesn't anyone know CPR?"

Focus shifted from the bartender back to the figure on the floor. Then a voice came from a corner of the car next to the bar, ñOoww, my head!îApparently, not all the people had fallen in one pile. A confused lady was just then getting up. "What's going on?" Tami asked the crowd in general. Ethel Collins, the elderly lady who had been so excited about the tunnel, responded to her question. "Someone has been hurt, dear. The power went off, and we were in the tunnel, and several people fell, and, we're getting help, but, . . ."

Tami stopped listening to the rambling response. She easily pushed through the crowd to see what had their attention. What she saw caused her to freeze, but only momentarily. Then she went to him, and knelt next to him on the floor, and said to him, "George? What's wrong? What is it? . . . George? George!"

Tears started flowing down her cheeks as she tried in vain to get a response, calling out his name over and over. The train rocked gently from side to side as her voice trailed off. Everyone stood silently watching, not knowing what to do or say. Then Tami slowly lifted her head and looked at the circle of passengers.

"Who did it?" She scanned the crowd. "Which one of you killed my husband?"

To Be Continued