“You calling me a piece of shit?” the one-legged man snarled from his wheelchair, the leavings of several meals encrusting his faded shirt.
“I didn’t say that, sir.” The speaker crackled. “I said we can’t stop the train just cuz you got on the wrong car. It’s rush hour, we’re doing what we can.”
He wheeled himself over to the offending door; red block lettering indicated it was broken. He commiserated. His grubby nails peeled the sticker away—as if the words would lose their power if torn. He had cracked when his body broke, maybe it worked for paper.
Phoebe Darqueling 