I’m waiting for the commuter train at the New Haven train station, which is almost 100 years old. My stop is New London, CT, just 50 minutes away but the board reads Harrisburg, PA. I have to check with the ticket agent to make sure my $9.50 ticket won’t send me deep into another state.

“No,” he says, “the board does that sometimes. It’s old.”

“How old? ” I ask. He doesn’t know.

I joke that there’s a ghost in the machine. He nods, “Maybe.” It makes me think that the ghost cares about the passengers, its charges, watching us coming and going but never leaving, and from time to time even making helpful suggestions about where we ought to go.