He’s one of few people on the subway other than me who isn’t hooked up to electronics. All he has is a cane and a section of the Sunday New York Times. He juts his head slightly forward to read, his hair a white picket fence beneath a wide open sky, lips moving. He periodically lowers the paper to look around, laughing a laugh as silent to me as it is to those drowning out the world via headphones. When he folds it down to find an unread spot, I see it’s the color comics. My grin shatters my face.