Bloor Line, packed three to a door

Caucasian woman, late 30s, short, spikey blonde hair, wearing baggy jeans, brown sneakers, and a grey hoodie under a second hand orange, blue and yellow ski vest. Wearing a thick silver band on her wedding ring.

We Need to Talk About Kevin, Lionel Shriver (Harper Perennial)

Like most people who did not answer a particular calling from an early age, you placed work beside yourself; any occupation would fill up your day but not your heart. I liked that about you. I liked it enormously.

She looks forward to the morning commute. She'll ride to the end of the line and take two buses to the warehouse where she'll take her place on the line next to Deb, a lifer married to Brad, always on the road, and Marlene, a late 40s pre-op, her hair in a net not for code but because in the winter her hair goes frizzy.

The boxes make their way toward them, the first row complete. She readies her stock and fans them into place, a pack each. Peek Freans: Lemon Thins, Digestives, Arrow Root, Fruit Creme Tropical, Nice, Shortcake. And two packs of Dad's Oatmeal and Oreo cookies. She notices one of the Dad's Oatmeal has a tear in the wrapper. She waits until the boxes move down the line and rips the plastic open, popping the cookie in whole. It's crunchy and dry, she puts her head down to chew in effort. Cheeks full, crumbs dotting the corners of her mouth, she looks up at Marlene and sticks out her tongue. They laugh.