She is remarkable. Young and vibrant, she drums her carefully manicured nails across the edge of her portable keyboard. She sneaks secret smiles as she types, delighted at something she has written. Her nails click against the quiet keys, driving silver bumps to rise in a line below the space bar. She runs her fingertips over the bumps and smiles again, muttering to herself over what she has written.
She is blind. She is on the train every day.
She steals her transit pass from a pocket or purse and flicks it next to her ear. She does this twice to confirm it is what she thinks it is. It is carefully placed inside a pocket in her backpack.
She packs her things the stop before we leave the train. Her cane snaps to length with efficiency as the train slows. The other passengers give her wide berth as the cane sweeps back and forth, tapping the floor in front of her. Some offer to help and she smiles but declines.
She taps her way slowly across the platform, wary of the drop 15 feet on either side of her; wary of the circular concrete platforms that dot the center of the station, where some passengers sit.
She is not smiling as I walk past, her brow furrowed with concentration as she listens for possible pitfalls.
She is remarkable.
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