I'm convinced the devil disguised himself as a four-year-old child.
The devil wears a grey power ranger t-shirt with old ratty, worn heather grey sweat pants. The devil appears to come from a family with limited wealth.
The devil is a chatterbox.
It's now hour five of a six-and-a-half hour train ride with the devil - he is slated to depart at the halfway point of our journey - and the devil has me ready to ask the woman he disguised as his mother why she is letting this happen.
Why she won't either tell her young boy to play the quiet game or demand that he stop talking loudly, out of respect for other people on the train. The devil must have made her oblivious to his non-stop chatter because she is just sitting there, completely ignoring his repetitive pleas for attention.
The devil must have a plan: he wants to see me lose my marbles.
Five hours in, the migraine is worsening, and nothing can deafen the sound of the devil. I can hear him though my iPod is turned up full-blast - which does nothing but cause the throbbing migraine to intensify.
To make matters worse, when the devil feels he is being ignored - namely by his so-called mother whose complete lack of ability to discipline is disturbing - he talks even louder.
Or, he begins to sing.
The devil is smart, there is no doubt. He is executing his plan most perfectly. My head is now throbbing to the point where I am losing my mind. I can't be held responsible for what I'm going to do if we don't pull into the next station soon.
My only solace is the fact the devil's stop is fast approaching. If I can just hold on for a few more miles. Just a few more miles.
I manage to seek refuge in the bathroom, as tears run down my face. The throbbing pain in my head is causing my stomach to feel uneasy. When will this end?
A few dozen miles down the track, I feel the train's speed decreasing. The devil departs, but not before waving a friendly goodbye, as if to say, "I'll get you next time."
As we arrive in Williston after an extended train ride from Whitefish, Montana - thanks to snowy conditions - the weather is cold and I can feel the devil's presence.
He wants one last shot.
The drive home is horrendous. First, we take a wrong turn, causing us to drive a few extra miles. This road is okay, at first. But then I see it. The devil.
He turned the road to ice. It feels as though I'm driving on a hockey rink. I can't see where I'm going because the snow is blowing so hard, and I'm hitting drifts which are sure to be causing damage to my little black Jetta.
At times the ice on the road is so thick and rugged, I can see mini pot holes. I begin to pray for the devil to leave. I just want to make it home. It's already so late.
But he continues his pursuit. I turn onto another highway, and though the ice is gone, the snow drifts have grown. I'm driving in the middle of the highway just to avoid them. Hopefully another vehicle doesn't come out of nowhere.
Finally, we make it to our last turn. Portal: 7 miles.
I can see the lights. They're so bright and magnificent. They're calling our names.
As we approach the Canadian border, the devil gives it one more try with icy potholes. But, by now I'm onto his tricks and I masterfully avoid them. The light is on my side.
The border is a breeze, and before we know it, we're back in Canada, less than an hour from home.
Miraculously, the roads were dry.
No ice.
No snow drifts.
No devil.
