Illustrations by Eric Hanson

Walk onto the New York subway, the L in Chicago, or the BART in San Francisco, and the vibrancy of the city comes past the turnstile. Sometimes it’s in the form of a dancer’s boot missing your chin by scarcely an inch, or eight young music lovers who have yet to discover the magic of headphones and the concept of courtesy. Life follows. That’s because it’s where the people are. 

Our little 1 Line is somewhat static, sterile, a bit too clean by comparison, and devoid of connections to other train lines that would make it feel like the vasculature of the city. The 1 Line can feel, at times, distinct from the rhythm of the city. A carnival ride sawing back and forth. 

To be fair, the 1 Line has only been around since 2009, its spine lengthening year by year. Everything north of Northgate came last year. The middle part—Northgate to University District—opened in 2021. It’s a baby. 

With promises of three more stops down south later this year and a—knock on wood—floating connection to the 2 Line on the Eastside, we’ll have an actual, regional system. It’s growing up. And at the same time, hopefully, finding its own culture. 

We decided to find out if that was true. A team of willing, somewhat hungover, Stranger writers set out to experience as much of the light rail as humanly possible. Sound Transit begins service at 5 a.m. and cuts it at 1 a.m. the next morning. So we couldn’t spend a whole day on the train, but we got close. Five of us rode the line in four-hour shifts, getting light-railed for a total of 20 hours.

Through it all, we talked to the people who would talk to us, eavesdropped, and enjoyed people watching, life’s greatest pleasure. We found life on the light rail. It’s just a bit hushed, and chilly. A public transit culture in its infancy. 

“The City Wakes Up.” Nathalie Graham. 5 a.m. to 9 a.m. 

I feel like shit. The moon is still up, and my astigmatism is going crazy. I watch Cal Anderson rats scurry away as I reach the station. 

Boarding train at Capitol Hill Station: 5 a.m.

Wow, it really came right at 5 a.m., I think. 

There are maybe 12 people on the train when I first get on. All quiet. I see a man wearing a star-covered hat carrying a poster, but I can’t see what’s written on it. A man with a green blanket gets on at Pioneer Square. People stare. He puts the blanket over his head and lies down.

It’s so bright in here. I see the first snatch of daylight through the window as we go from International District/Chinatown Station to Stadium. The moon is still up. It’s full. I can see it as we climb to Beacon Hill. Should I tell the people across from me to turn around? I don’t. 

Someone gets on smelling of spicy food. I ask the man with luggage and a dog where he’s going. His name is Ron. “To the airport,” Ron says. Obviously. But where? Family in Detroit. The dog, Jasper, keeps barking at homeless people, embarrassing Ron. “I don’t know why he does it,” Ron says. He’s moved from the train’s middle to mitigate barking incidents. 

At this hour, the train is truly an airport shuttle. All the airport workers get on at Tukwila. They sit, poised on the edges of their seats. Their hair is done, their makeup fresh. They are alert in ways I cannot comprehend. Taking the light rail to the airport and not getting off is interesting: It’s a relief that I don’t have to go through the rigamarole of travel, but it’s tinged with envy of the excitement ahead of people. 

The sun is rising. Mount Rainier is bathed in soft blues and pinks as we lurch toward Tukwila. It always takes so long to get to Tukwila.

There’s a mass exodus at SeaTac—just me and someone sleeping now. He is two rows behind me and bent over a bag. I wonder if he meant to go to the airport and missed his stop, or if he has nowhere to go. 

“Good luck with your morning,” Ron says as he and Jasper leave. 

Northbound train: 5:49 a.m.

I’m in the second car from the back. My hangover is moving into a sort of nausea phase. 

Green Blanket Guy is in my car again. He finds a row at the opposite end of the train and plunks down to nap again. He disappears from sight.

The only real conversation I’ve heard so far is in another language. Two women from Eritrea, speaking Tigrinya, one wearing a yellow headscarf, both wearing colorful skirts. They’ve been here 20 years, they tell me, and they’re headed to work in the University District. 

No one else speaks. No one is moving. Everyone is head down into their phone. The only people doing anything different are the homeless people—other passengers stare and raise their eyebrows at them. 

The girl in front of me scrolls YouTube Shorts. A woman who looks like Mikey Madison wears pink headphones and writes something, rehearsing it, marking it with a pen.

Someone in scrubs who works for Seattle Children’s—maybe a doctor or a nurse—pulls out headphones from a snap case and starts brushing her hair. Everything she needs is in that bag. She brushes her hair for many stops. 

A man gets on with a cookie cake. I can’t tell what it says. He looks unhappy. 

First furry sighting: 6:45 a.m. Their yellow-green tail is poking out on the seat. It is worse for wear. They’re wearing a collar with a hot pink star tag. If only I hadn’t lost my glasses, I could see what it says. 

End of the line. Security comes on at Lynnwood, a big portly guy. He yells, “TIME TO GET UP” and then “GET OFF.” It is just me, the man bent over on his backpack who was with me at the airport, and the sleeping man with the green blanket. I scurry out and hop on the next train, hoping my sleeping companions will join me. They don’t.

Southbound train: 7:08 a.m.

I sit next to a married couple going to the airport—“Want water?” The husband asks the wife. Both of them wear the same white tennis shoes. “Did you get yours updated to TSA Pre?”

At 7:23 a.m. at Northgate South, the train feels full for the first time all morning. People are now sitting next to strangers. Still, the quiet is wearing me down. The train is full and no one is speaking.

A man sits next to me wearing a bracelet that says VIP 13. He reeks of body odor. I am not grateful for this change. It is, however, the first time I’ve smelled anything besides the nothingness of the train in hours.

At 8:05 a.m., the mountain is mostly white and blue. 

The trees. We are always in the trees. At least the silence makes sense in the trees. 

Northbound train: 8:20 a.m.

A youngish man named AZ gets on the train. He looks tired. His pants keep falling down. They are dirty. So are his hands. He pulled his wagon of stuff onto the train. He uses a strap to secure the wagon to a pole. The wagon is piled with papers, boxes, detritus. I am sure it is important to AZ. He pulls a package of deli turkey from the wagon.

“Where are you headed?” I ask.

“I’m tired, so I’m just trying to sleep,” he says. 

I explain who I am, what I am doing. 

“You’re a journalist. I bet you’re good at it,” he mumbles. 

I think about this morning. About the way I could not coax much out of anyone. I’m not so sure these few hours where I fell prey to the antisocial quiet of the train was good journalism. “Eh, I don’t know about that,” I reply. A beat. “Do you ride the train often to sleep?”

AZ doesn’t answer. He flops over, either asleep or incapacitated. The package of turkey stays unopened and uneaten, precariously pinched between AZ’s face and fingers. Each turn of the train inches the meat further from the tenuous wedge. It doesn’t fall.

His leashed wagon sways in the bike area with each turn. During a big bend, the wagon swings around the pole and blocks one of the doors. 

People on the train just watch. The turkey falls.

A man wearing Michigan State Spartans gear says “hi” as I walk past. He starts whistling. “Is this baseball?” his wife asks as we pass T-Mobile Park. Yes, it is, I want to say. The three hours of silence on this train muzzle me.

A couple enters at SeaTac. She’s pregnant. “Just made it.” “That was hard.” I spot socks with sandals—definitely from here. They both pull out books. Hers is Lolita. 

By 8:48 a.m., the world and the train are waking. Even just the sounds of fidgeting are louder than they were earlier. I can actually feel the city coming alive.

“The Regulars.” Audrey Vann. 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. 

I step on at the Pioneer Square Station, where all the escalators are working and the waiting area actually has trash cans. I walk into the last train car headed south, and am greeted with the aroma of warm dish soap. There are about 15 people in my car; all are on their phones. 

My phone, with its alluring crossword puzzles, audiobooks, and Candy Crush, is burning a hole in my pocket.

By the time we leave SeaTac, I am the only one left in the car. 

Northbound train: 10 a.m.

I switch trains at Angle Lake and sit across from a woman I will call “Jen.” Jen is in a vibrant primary blue maxi dress and matching velvet scrunchie, with curly, bright red hair piled on her head in a sassy ponytail. Almost immediately, Jen tells me she’s on her way to the Westlake stop to meet her fiancé, who works at a hotel. “It’s a really nice one,” she says. “He’s met the presidents before.” I wonder what she means by “the presidents,” but I don’t ask for clarification. I don’t want to embarrass her. 

“My fiancé is [whispers and hides her mouth behind her hand] Black.” It’s their four-year anniversary today. To celebrate, they’re having dinner at Applebee’s. “I wanted to wear a nice dress today, but I only have two nice dresses,” she says. “I chose this blue dress because it’s lightweight.” We discuss how it will be in the 90s next week.

“Do you know the downtown ambassadors?” she asks. I nod. “They are really nice—I am friends with some of them. Sometimes they are a little too nice. There is this one guy who I had to put in his place.” She blushes.

I perk up. “What happened with him?” 

“Well,” Jen says in a hushed tone, “We are friends and we get lunch together sometimes. He’s bought me a few hamburgers—he’s a real gentleman. He knows I’m engaged, but once said, ‘If you were single, I’d be with you in an instant.’ I can never tell my fiancé because he would get mad. That’s the last thing I need.”

Jen doesn’t work and has been on disability her entire life, so she rides the train to pass the time. “I’m not a TV person, and there is only so much housework I can do.” 

She meets her fiancé at work every day. He gets off at 1 p.m., but when she got off, it was barely 11. I assume that she is arriving early in the hopes that she’ll run into the ambassador. She blushes each time she talks about him.

A man who I’ll call “James” overheard our conversation and asks if I’m doing a survey. I explain that I work for a newspaper and am spending four hours on the light rail. “You should write about the trains in Hawaii,” he says as if he’s been waiting years for someone like me. “Where I am from in Hawaii, the train stations are far from the city, and no buses connect to them. You’d literally have to drive to the station to take the train. It’s ridiculous.”

The loud hum of the train nearly drowns out James. He tells me about his nonprofit job providing job counseling to Asian, Native Hawaiian, and Pacific Islander communities. “I hate to say it,” he admits, “but there is so much waste.” He goes on to tell me that many of his clients aren’t fluent in English. “How can they expect to get a job if they can’t even speak English?” 

I bristle at his comment. I think James notices and changes the subject. “You know what really ought to be illegal?” he asks. I sink deeper into my seat, afraid of what he’ll say next. “The fact that there are no restrooms at train stations.” I sigh with relief. “A lot of people piss and defecate in elevators because there is nowhere else to go.” I nod and flash a look of concern. “Why are they punishing everyone for the bad behavior of a few people?” he asks. The train stops. Luckily, it was his stop. 

Lynnwood, Southbound: 11 a.m.

Two silver-haired women who walk on at Lynnwood are riding the train to the Symphony shop so they can go to the art museum. They put on their glasses to show each other vacation photos on their phones. They zoom in on a photo of a seal. 

It’s hard to eavesdrop over the constant gurgling sound, like being in the belly of a whale. It feels like it, too. The air is humid and warm. 

Between Capitol Hill and SoDo: noon

A woman with light green hair and dark black eyeliner enters the train. A young woman with brown hair seated next to me taps on her (I presume) boyfriend’s shoulder. “Oh my god, it’s her!” she says, pointing. The women lock eyes. I piece together that they met at a clothing store that day and had complimented each other’s outfits. The green-haired woman says she’s Iris; the seated woman introduces herself as Dahlia. “NO WAY! Both flower names!” Iris says. “Girl,” coos Dahlia, “our meeting was destined to happen!” Iris sits next to Dahlia and they exchange social media accounts.

Thirty minutes before my shift is up, the train is rocking me to sleep. At Angle Lake, several fare ambassadors get on to check our tickets. They depart at Tukwila, reminding me of something James claimed earlier—that fare ambassadors only check tickets at the Angle Lake and Lynnwood. 

A couple and their teenage sons drag on their luggage at SeaTac. They seem annoyed with the busy train—they can’t take up 10 seats with their suitcases. The mother tells her younger son to stand, and he complains until she gives him the seat three stops later. This makes me think that I never want children. 

As I approach Pioneer Square and the end of my shift, I make the last-minute decision to get off at Westlake instead. There is a fancy candle at Nordstrom. I want it. I also hope that if I get off there, I might see Jen eating burgers with the ambassador. Alas, I do not. 

“Luggage People” Charles Mudede. 1 p.m. to 5 p.m. 

I enter the southbound train at the Capitol Hill Station with treats from M2M Mart’s hot deli—a variety of compact musubi.

Capitol Hill Station is my favorite on the line. It’s the one that’s most urban and colorful. Westlake is where most of the luggage riders exit. The University of Washington Station is the best architecturally. U District Station has the best art, by Lead Pencil Studio. 

I board the train at 1:04 p.m. My car, the penultimate car, is one-third full, with a good number of luggage riders who did not join the mass exodus at Westlake. (I rarely see the luggage riders at the Capitol Hill Station.)

There are two types of trains on the 1 Line. Old ones, and newish ones. Old ones were designed by the German company Siemens Mobility. The new ones, introduced in 2021, are by the Japanese company Kinkisharyo. I’m on a train designed by the Japanese company, and it also has the new seats.

The air conditioner is not running or is too weak. It’s already around 80 outside. On Metro buses, you can always feel a bus’s air conditioner. Link trains are always so-so.

“I just arrived from New York,” a young man tells me as we head to U District Station. I ask the man, who is 23, what he is doing in Seattle and where he is going. “To Kingston. My friend has a cabin there. He went to college in Denver with my girlfriend. They are at the cabin with other friends. I’m supposed to get off at Mountlake Terrace and catch an Uber to Edmonds, and jump on the ferry from there.” 

He also tells me he is from Brooklyn and will be in the Seattle area for a week. It’s his second time here. He likes the weather. 

The train is now between Northgate and Mountlake Terrace Stations. We are flying above I-5, where southbound traffic is stuck. 

The train arrives at Mountlake Terrace Station. He exits. But the train has more riders than it had when it left Capitol Hill Station. It’s also diverse. Every race imaginable is in here. Indeed, our suburbs are often more diverse than our inner-city neighborhoods.

I eat my first snack—Spam and egg musubi. 

Southbound train: 2:04 p.m.

I’m in the last car of an older train. The air is warm. The train is rushing along. Again, the car is one-third full. 

Everyone, however, is on their phones. I mean everyone. No one cares about the beauty of the deep-green trees, the Olympic Mountains, or other people.

I ask a woman who entered at Shoreline South—30-ish, dressed for summer—where she is heading. She is going to do groceries at the Whole Foods at Roosevelt. She usually does this in a car, but her car is in the garage. She plans to pick up a few things, take them home, and prepare a meal for her and her roommate. I ask why she is not on her phone like everyone else. She laughs and says, “You began asking me questions before I could get my phone out.” 

Luggage people enter at Westlake. These riders never put their luggage under their seats. 

Northbound train: 3:20 p.m.

I’m heading north again. The train is an old one and almost empty. Somewhere around the Tukwila Station, I must make a decision: talk to two men in ready-to-bike-in-nature gear or a youngish man reading a book. I pick the reader. He has reddish hair and wears short, very tight pants. “What’re you reading?” I ask. He shows me the book’s cover. It’s a novel by a writer whose name has never entered my world: Robin Hobb. The novel: Assassin’s Quest. “Is it any good?” I ask. He raises his shoulder in a way that indicates I may not get it. He can already sense I’m a literary snob. My voice couldn’t hide it. “It’s fantasy. It’s the third novel in a trilogy. I like it.” Maybe I should have talked to the nature cyclists, who left the train at Columbia City.

At Beacon Hill Station, a woman enters with her dog, which clearly doesn’t want to be on the train. Dogs prefer cars with open windows. The hound’s eyes are filled with fear. They quiver. And every time the doors open, they want out. But their human companion only exited the train at Capitol Hill Station.

I eat my second snack—shrimp musubi. 

U District Station, 4:41 pm

“Can I tell you, I don’t agree with you all the time, but I really like your writing,” a woman wearing jeans tells me. I asked if I could ask her a few questions shortly after she entered the train, a new one, at the U District Station. She said she knew who I was. She laughed. She had read my stuff forever. She recalls something I wrote 12 years ago. It was her favorite thing. But what did she do? “I’m in tech,” she says. “What do you do in tech?” I press. She is a coder. “The real stuff,” I say. “Yes, the real stuff,” she says. 

“The Black Parade.” Julianne Bell. 5 p.m. to 9 p.m.

On the Capitol Hill light rail platform, the Black Parade is in full swing. These people are clearly dressed for My Chemical Romance, who are is playing at T-Mobile Park: funeral black outfits, Manic Panic hair, red striped sweaters and red plaid, fishnets, lace-up boots, Converse, and clear bags. The general vibe is best described as “Hot Topic store managers meeting.”

Capitol Hill, southbound train: 5:18 p.m. 

A man in a T-shirt, shorts, and baseball cap named Sean sits next to me in the rear of the car. He’s meeting his wife before they take the water taxi to visit his aunt in West Seattle.

He’s a transportation consultant who doesn’t ride the light rail often. He bikes and wishes the city would spend more money on pedestrian bike connections

Chinatown/International District

A middle-aged woman named Carol sits next to me. She has short cherry-red hair. She’s clutching a plastic Coke bottle and there’s a “Loki for President” button on her bag. She smells faintly of cigarette smoke and her voice is slightly raspy. I reveal my assignment. She says she loves The Stranger.

She tells me she’s headed to SoDo to hit up Zips Cannabis with some friends and grab KFC afterward. I ask her if she goes there often. “Oh, yes, that’s a common trip,” she says, laughing.

Angle Lake, northbound: 6:17 p.m. 

A garbled, staticky announcement warns that all riders must exit the train. I get out and pace. I see the cleaning crew and transit security. I see a group in black Tool T-shirts and wonder if they’re headed to My Chemical Romance.

SeaTac: 6:23 p.m.

At SeaTac, an older couple sits behind me. They’re here visiting their son. The wife is loudly confused about which stop is theirs. “Westlake.” “Wesley?” “No, Westlake!” They call their son on speakerphone. 

Further down the train, a group of friends in black clothes with striped arm warmers, heading to My Chemical Romance, chat and snap pictures of each other. A straight elder emo couple with matching Doc Martens and clear plastic concert bags sit together silently.

I approach Ciara and Jason, friends talking to two older women from Nebraska who were stopping at Pike Place Market before an Alaskan cruise. 

Ciara is a 28-year-old wedding photographer from Portland with shimmery eye shadow and lashes coated in mascara. She is also seeing My Chemical Romance, a band her brother showed her in elementary school. 

She met Jason online playing Call of Duty 2 in high school. This was their first time meeting in person. Jason, wearing a chain over his Linkin Park tee, traveled from Los Angeles to see the show. 

Ciara and Jason are “big concert people.” Ciara says with pride that she’s seen Taylor Swift’s Reputation Tour and her Eras Tour—twice. She’s seeing the Fray later this summer, a nostalgic band for her. She grew up watching the Superman show Smallville with her mom. They featured heavily on the soundtrack.

Jason recently drove to see the Killers’ Las Vegas residency, but was disappointed that they played their second album (which they never play) at another show and not his. They’ve both seen Paramore twice. Ciara comments that the band performed their iconic Twilight song “Decode” when she saw them in Seattle (Jason, outraged: “She didn’t sing that when I saw her!”)

Lynnwood, southbound: 8:17 p.m.

I get off at the Lynnwood light rail station and walk around a bit to stretch my legs. When I hop back on, the only other person in the car is a young man with longish hair. The hypnotic rhythm of the train, and its stuffy air, start to lull me. 

Three transit fare enforcement officers in blue vests hop in at Pioneer Square. Everyone stiffens. A nervous-looking man a few seats away from me starts to tell one of the officers he paid his fare. The officer waves him off.

He clears his throat. “Good evening, everyone,” he says. He explains he’s not here to check people’s fare this time and is getting off at Chinatown. He says he’s here for “customer service” and just wants to know if anyone has any questions or concerns. Everyone relaxes.

The nervous man again insists that he paid his fare. The enforcement officer says he appreciates it and helps a couple of young men secure their luggage.

“Last One!” Vivian McCall. 9 p.m. to 1:00 a.m.

Capitol Hill, northbound: 9:04 p.m.

The rollerblader is so close to the tracks that I want to throw up. They’re weaving inches from a fall. In booty shorts. They skid to a stop, nearly crashing into a pedestrian. 

When I get on, a man with a duffel bag mutters to himself on the seat across from me. He looks like Mike Love from the Beach Boys and makes intense eye contact that breaks into a jittery smile. 

I notice the airline tag on his duffel bag. Depending on where he’s from, I may be an unusual sight.

I check my watch: 9:18 p.m. The man next to me is reading my notes. I turn to him. Another Mike Love.

We reach Lynnwood City Center and I crouch on the platform. It smells like vomit and Italian bread from Subway. 

The kind security guard says I can take the same train in the other direction. I step inside. It smells like sweat and farts. And a little like Subway.

A teenage boy and a young woman sit across from me in the middle of the car. The teen’s suitcase has a tag that reads ORD to SEA. His name is Chris; the woman’s name is Caroline. I ask if they’re from Chicago. No, New York. They passed through Chicago on their way here. They hiked Mount Rainier, which was “good.” What did they like? “The nature.” I assume they speak in full sentences, but not to me. 

A shirtless, tattooed man steps on the train. A miniature Sonic (the Hedgehog) skateboard and camera are tucked into the waistband of his cargo shorts. He’s holding a pale green spear of honeydew melon in one hand and a blue rose in the other. I check my watch again. It’s 10:00 p.m. On the dot. Day has become night.

A crowd pours in at U District Station. There are at least 70 people in here. The shirtless, tattooed man is applying baby oil to his hair and body. He takes a Barbie, still in the packaging, and a green box cutter from his bag. He slices the packaging, which falls to the floor like hair at a barbershop. When he finishes, he places the knife back in his bag and retrieves a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. He bites at the packaging.

Pioneer Square, southbound: 10:16 p.m.

I notice four security guards in the car. Seattle is an early-to-bed city. Their shifts probably just ended. A young woman on the platform carries a bulging plastic grocery bag and a busted mirror. I’m reminded of college.

10:27 p.m.

A small child, maybe 8 years old, gets on alone at Rainier Beach. God… was he born after Donald Trump became president? This makes me sad.

10:47 p.m.

A sleeping man with bushy black eyebrows is jostled awake by a sudden lurch. His head snaps forward. Barely conscious, he fishes his phone from his pocket, puts it back, and falls back asleep seconds later. He throws his head back again. He’s so relaxed. I’ve never fallen asleep on the train post-transition. I wouldn’t.

A security guard drops his phone behind me. We all jump. The 8-year-old hops off at Tukwila, still alone.

10:52 p.m.

The office park at Angle Lake strikes me as beautiful. It’s ghostly white, almost brutalist. There’s an art installation above my head. Pink disks threaded with wire, like a tambourine pulled apart in a spider’s web.

Angle Lake, northbound: 11:01 p.m.

There’s a girl with a red bag and tan shoes. Her hair is up and she’s folded her body like a packing peanut. 

At SeaTac, a big man (Ramone) in a rumpled suit grapples with a tall narrow case. It looks like a giant lipstick tube. I try to guess what was inside. “Bassoon?” 

Slide projector, Ramone says, for a presentation on his fraternity at the Hilton. He’s got a warm smile. He’s gay, too, I think. How right I was: Ramone is working on a PhD in gender and sexuality studies. He wants to teach. 

“Would Trump be a problem?” I ask.

“It’s not the first time academia has been under attack from the nation-state,” he says. It’s such a confident answer. I feel silly asking. He knows the risk of entering academia right now better than I do, I think.

I ask where he’s going. To his boyfriend’s place, he says. Which stop? I ask. He hesitates, then answers. “Lynnwood.” I wonder if he is telling the truth. It’s fine if he isn’t. I’m a stranger.

Stadiums: 11:31 p.m.

MCR fans flood the car. They’re loud and smell like popcorn. A teen sits next to me. Sandy blond hair sticks out from his Mariners hat. He has small eyes and big cheeks. He moves gracefully. The line to get into the concert had been “unreal,” but it was worth it. MCR played the The Black Parade back to front, the teen, whose name is Wyatt, says.

He says he first heard MCR in “grade 10.” I ask if he’s Canadian and he smiles big. “How did you know?” he asks. “We say 10th grade,” I say, smiling back. He’s sweet. 

Wyatt, who is from British Columbia, says his family used to come to Washington to grocery shop. Before the tariffs, of course. Shop Canadian is still a big deal, Wyatt says. He’s a cashier at a grocery store. The other day, a woman came in asking for Canadian lemons. They didn’t have those, so she didn’t buy lemons.

A big guy with a long, Seussian beard and an Iron Maiden T-shirt listens intently. Dad, I suspect. I’m right. His name is Cory, and he tells me they’re going back to BC tonight. They’ll get in at about 3 a.m., he says. That’s late, I think.

Two lesbians, I think, joke about fleeing the country. There’s a pause I’m familiar with. They’re a little serious, but not serious enough to be serious about it.

12:05 a.m.

My conversation with Cory and Wyatt reaches its natural end and we’re all staring in absurd directions to avoid eye contact. Canadians are not that different after all.

12:18 a.m. 

The train stops at Shoreline. A man walks off with popcorn. That explains the smell.

Bored, I ask Cory about his Iron Maiden shirt. He was 7 when he first saw the band in—his eyes roll while he does the mental calculation—1983, which would make him 50. I suddenly notice wrinkles around his eyes. They were playing in Vancouver. His 13-year-old sister took him. He seems amazed that a 13-year-old could take a 7-year-old to a concert. Cory jokes about keeping a way closer eye on his son, who seems a little embarrassed, but not too much. They like each other. It’s nice to be around family that gets along. I ask if his sister still listens to Iron Maiden. He pauses. He doesn’t know. They don’t talk.

The train arrives at Lynnwood. We stand up. Wyatt turns to me. It was nice to meet you, he says. We step off the train and wave goodbye. 

After a moment, I reenter the train. At night, an empty train car feels like an empty swimming pool. I enjoy the silence.

The door opens with a clunk and a man steps on. He sits close enough behind me that I’m nervous. I think about the sleeping man with bushy eyebrows. I could never do that. I dig for my phone in my purse and can’t find it. It’s gone, I think, and start digging with real panic. 

I find it.

12:55 a.m.

Doors open at Roosevelt. A security guard sings: “Last one! Last one!” Fucking tell me about it, dude. 

1:04 a.m.

I get off the train with a stranger singing “Last One!” in my head.