NINE
I got off the northbound No. 2 IRT and found out almost immediately that I was not alone. The late October evening inside the station felt unusually weighty on my senses.
The tired commuters had long reached home, back to the busy scuffle of an ordinary life—home-cooked meals, irritable kids, TV time, nagging spouses, and overdue bills. For me most things had a dismal film attached. My rose-colored lenses had been stolen. Time was the thief. It wasn’t an ideal time to travel, Faizan always admonished. But he wasn’t there anymore to have his say unless he woke up from the grave to give me a lecture on safety.
I heard heavy breathing behind me. Angry, smoky, scared. I could tell there were several of them, probably four. Not pros, perhaps in their teens. They walked closer sometimes,
