As he stepped out of the train at 7th Avenue he hissed venomously into the ear of the short man in the baseball cap who stood at the left of the doorway: You’re in the way. There was no reaction from the other man—he might not have heard. But I did. I stared at him as we walked along the platform. Well-to-do, my age. Guy from the neighborhood. Probably a family. Good job. He gave me an unhappy glance, suggesting that he knew I was scrutinizing him, that he knew I’d heard what he said, and that he regretted that I had—that anyone had. It was supposed to come from the darkest core of his self into another human being—his target—and the world wasn’t supposed to know.