The train pulled into the station and gave birth to a tiny dinosaur with one eye. The station master called it a tragedy. He bewailed his fate. How could this new one shuttle the cars around the yard, much less pull 100 freight cars across the country. Would it see the signals and stop in time? What was the cause, he wondered. Diesel fuel? The residue from chemical cars? Father wasn’t that old. Nor was the mother. Young, in the thick of it, of virgin steel, in the prime of life, physically fit. The evening of the birth dad lost his cool and used on the wrong fuel. Now it was over. They needed to come to terms with it and the fact that life in the yard would never be the same. They could do some things to help, the doctor said. The doctor told them things that would help though a limp handshake convinced the station master it was, in fact, hopeless. They would put in brighter lights and louder whistles. Flexibility. That was needed. And patience. The little dinosaur could learn to become a proper engine, they supposed. But the wheels. Where were the wheels? Now what would they do about the lack of wheels. How could he cope without wheels?