I rode the trains back and forth for hours, noticing the unloved people. They were suddenly everywhere. A thin woman in a window seat rocked herself back and forth. Quarter-sized bruises lined the inside of her arm. They reminded me of a shirt I’d shoplifted once – when I’d pulled off the security tag, it left splotches of permanent dye all down one sleeve. The thin woman rose and moved toward the exit, rubbing at her arm. People could also be ruined in ways that were impossible to reverse.
A man with a neck brace got on at the next stop and planted himself in the centre of the aisle. He was holding a display box full of small coloured lighters. “My friends, forgive me,” he called out. His Spanish was slow and basic like mine. “I am ashamed to be begging for your help. I am a strong man,
