It was a typical weekday evening, the subway thrumming along the tracks as usual. I sat near the window, lost in thought, until the train paused at the next station.
That’s when a young boy, maybe ten, stepped into the car. He looked like he’d darted out of school mid-day — hair tousled, shorts wrinkled, and one sneaker missing entirely. The other foot had only a thin striped sock. He slipped quietly into an open seat between two adults, doing his best to be invisible.
But of course, people noticed. One commuter quickly turned their gaze to a phone. Another glanced his way with mild disapproval, then stared out the window. But the man sitting directly to the boy’s right didn’t look away.
He wore the clothes of a laborer — jeans smudged with paint, a thick jacket, rugged boots. His eyes kept flicking from the boy’s bare foot to the canvas bag at his own feet. You could tell he was mulling something over.
