The next day, I convinced myself I’d dreamt the whole thing, but that didn’t stop me from being on the same train that night. I watched out for anyone who might look like Dixon, moving from car to car, not once sitting down before I gave it up around four-thirty.
The next night was Friday. More people. I had to stop looking when a pair of girls kept giving me the stink eye and playing with their phones like they were going to call the cops as soon as they got a signal.
By the following Tuesday, I’d completely written off the reflection as being in my head. Dixon had been a pivotal part of my life, changing it forever. Even more so after he died. I might not think about him every day like I used to, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t always there in some form or another. It occurred to me tha
