For the first time in years, Hunter found himself sitting in an elevated train car. His grandmother thought the ‘L’ was a haven for criminals and would never let Hunter take it. She always rode in her private car or, as a last resort, a cab when she needed to go somewhere.
But Evanston’s Purple Line was quiet, and except for a couple of women about his own age sitting next to each other near the front, heads together, talking and laughing, he had the car to himself. After the movie he decided it was too chilly and too exhausting to contemplate the twenty-minute walk home. Besides, he needed to broaden his horizons. The ride from downtown to the stop nearest his house, South Boulevard, would probably take no more than a few minutes. It would certainly be faster than walking home.
At the D
