A Blue Line passenger, a white man 30 or so, in nice (expensive-looking) brown leather jacket and giving the appearance of an easy-going, inoffensive, non-confrontational fellow, dark hair neatly cut, neither swarthy nor bearded — a passenger, in short, who calls attention to himself in no way — rises at Pulaski, westbound, stands at the door as the train slows and stops.  It’s in the middle of a weekday afternoon, the car is sparsely occupied.

Doors fold open before him, he steps toward the concrete platform, but as he does so reaches overhead and on the backlit glassed-in diagram of train routes overhead slaps a five-inch-square white label that sticks firmly, on which are inscribed black-marker pen scribblings.  He does it in a flash, barely pausing as he leaves the car, and is gone.

The doors unfold and close, the train pulls away.  The label’s markings, examined, show themselves as indecipherable…