I cough and don’t bother to cover my mouth. A cone of virus-infected spittle fans out from my mouth to the noses, mouths, ears, and skins of the other subway riders. Thanks to a late-March cold spell, the train is packed. They stare at me and I stare right back, daring any one of them to say something. They don’t. My cough is deep and guttural and sounds like the cranking of an old car. I wouldn’t be sick if it wasn’t for them. I glare at as many riders as I can in the space of a minute. Glaring, similar to singing or playing piano, becomes better the more you practice. I’m more of a speed technician than a virtuoso: my glares aren’t especially fierce but I fit many into a small period. You see, it was the riders’ hacking and spitting and sneezing and coughing that made me sick in the first place. Maybe it wasn’t these particular riders but it doesn’t make a difference. If I had the Avian flu, 72% of us wouldn’t stand a chance. Stupid chickens. I use my index finger to count ten people, and draw X’s over seven of them, letting the hot blonde woman and her two friends live. I cough again.

The subway rocks from side to side as it passes through a tunnel. It squeals and the lights blink on and off; sparks fly off the tracks. I don’t bother holding onto the metal pole. Instead, I rest against my neighbors. Every time the train stops or starts suddenly, I choose a direction and lean. When the going is steady, I arch my lower back and stretch it. I must have pulled something when coughing.

The subway stops in a tunnel with the floor tilting to the left. Everyone except me leans to the right. I find a comfortable person behind me and relax. A broken voice sounds over the loud speaker: “The…train…delay…outage…you know…we know.” I watch the riders stare at the speaker boxes. I can’t imagine it helps them much.