the red line

I remembered on platforms that people saw their breath. Steam rolled from lungs and windpipes into the sub-zero stillness underground. They waited, watching cars pass inches away without blinking, waiting to trade one misery for another. Outside, the cold sunk through bones like a grave and inside everything melted to secondary hell. Passengers exited, entered, created space. More visible surroundings amplified the filth of a stale winter. The train creaked and sank along two jolts and two jolts and two jolts. Two short, then two long vibrations lower.

We rolled to the next station. Dark dirt, mold grew like coal dust on dim lights along ceilings and frosted concrete. Stained gray and rubber doors burst open. Someone stepped in. Two tones. Doors closing.

He stepped to the inside of the car.

I’ve said to look at shoes and fingernails first. His toes spilled out of old shoes once white, then gray, now black. His hands were lined with grime. He didn’t lift eyes but spoke slowly.

“Food,” he said, “or water.”

The air paused to take in his presence. Our train car suspended, then jerked back and forward to electric currents. White sparks illuminated black walls repeating in a strobe-light second out of the corners of our eyes. Someone reached in their coat pocket and offered a few dollar bills. He waved them away.

“Only food,” he said, “or water.”