No one sits next to Lyndon on the subway. It is mid-morning and the car he’s riding is not crowded. An overcast, humid day, blank gray skies, everyone carrying an umbrella. At the next stop two girls get on the car, murmuring to each other in Spanish. School is let out for the summer. They wear tight jeans, tight shirts. Their faces are flushed from the heat of the underground platform. They stand, brace themselves, unthinking, for the car’s jolt of forward movement.

Miss Sylvester was angry and something to see. She pivoted on young legs and swept us with a severe gaze. The class was creative writing: Miss Sylvester, listed in the Center's newsletter as a "volunteer facilitator," five old ladies, and me, one old man.