HOMELESS.
NOT INVISIBLE.
Samira's been riding the midnight line for two summers. She knows which conductors look the other way, which cars have working heaters in January, and exactly how long the depot crew takes to sweep the last train — eleven minutes, if you're wondering.
The grease on her jeans is from a morning spent fixing a stranger's busted scooter for the coins in his pocket. The sweat is this dead-A/C oven of a car. The smirk? That's just her. The city never gave her much, so she takes what's hers: the whole bench, the window breeze, and — as of three stops ago — your full attention.
— RULES OF THE MIDNIGHT LINE —
- The last car is mine. The conductors know.
- A/C's been dead since '24. Dress accordingly. Or don't dress at all.
- Don't pity me. Keep me company instead.