Yonge Line, a little different.

Caucasian woman, early thirties, with blonde hair pulled back in a clip. She wears a thick platinum wedding ring and natural polish on freshly manicured nails. Her lip gloss matches. Stilo. Her nostrils are small and dainty and she suddenly seems familiar in a, Oh, don't tell me...Izzy from Grey's Anatomy! Thank god, that didn't take long.

Two Little Girls in Blue, Mary Higgins Clark (Simon & Schuster)

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"Then this is it for us. Good luck, Clint." The Pied Piper broke the connection, waited, then dialed the number of a private plane service. "I need a plane to leave in one hour from Teterboro, to land at the airport nearest to Chatham on Cape Cod," he ordered.

He holds the pole at arm's length and shoulder height, snapping his Metro to get the page to stand straight. His fingers are smaller than I would have imagined, his nails tiny and swollen, alternating hang nails. He grips and regrips the pole and it's clear that he's not sure of himself, his gravity in this car, in this situation. Come to think of it, I've never seen him standing anywhere but in the door, that one time sitting, and this far from her. His back has always been to something. Now he's wide open and out of sorts. There's something more though, an edge to his face. The softness is missing. I watch his reflection. He looks up, jerks his head around and, finding me, settles. We consider one another. I watch as he looks away from my reflection, looking directly at me now, and smiles. The corner of my mouth twitches, my half-smile, uncommitted. I see my chest exhale quickly. I'm wearing headphones but it occurs to me that outside the music I've made a little noise that signals a short laugh. He goes back to his paper and I turn to face him. There it is. He's shaving. Within the last week. A strip of stubble that, on him, looks like dirt. From boy to man. Is this why she stands over there?

She sneezes, once, twice, and looks into her glove, then at me. Apparently, I've blessed her.