The platform was lit by a single bulb that swayed whenever a train passed. I stood between the 6:14 and the 6:47, neither early enough to escape nor late enough to be forgiven.

A woman beside me was reading a novel in a language I did not recognize. The script looked like small birds perched on a wire. I wondered what story could make her smile at a train station after midnight.

I chose the later train. Not because I had somewhere to be, but because the delay gave me an alibi for everything I was leaving behind.