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…
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