“Belmont. Belmont next. Change there for Brown line trains. In the direction of travel, doors open on the right at Belmont.” Garbled, the mechanical voice informs, cloaked in static. The passengers are bored and their expressions barely register a reaction to the announcement. Outside, the night is hot and humid. An almost oily darkness presses into the windows of the el car, almost as if the languid night is a monster, awakening and seeking to press into the brightly lit train where it will war with its fluorescent glare and perhaps win.
As the el car rumbles along here on the north side of Chicago, two figures fill one end of the nearly empty car. It’s late: past one A.M. A night in August. The only other person in the car, a woman, stands at the door, casting nervous glances to the rea
