The 6:12 filled at the second stop with men in hard hats and women in scrubs, thermoses steaming, lunch bags balanced on their knees. He sat in the back row in a free visor and a paper wristband, holding one souvenir chip he had kept out so the night would not count as zero. At 11:40 he had been up four hundred dollars.

Nobody looked at him, which he was grateful for, and then wasn't. Across the aisle a man in a reflective vest held out half a sandwich with no comment attached, the way you hand things to people you have decided not to ask about. He took it. He ate all of it, slowly, and got off two stops early to walk the rest in the light.