The damp air blowing in off Lake Michigan was cold enough to leave a thin film of frost on the shop windows along the boulevard.

I walked three blocks to the corner kiosk, paid three dollars for a small cup of hot peppermint tea, and carried it toward the station.

The walk to Ogilvie Transportation Center took twelve minutes, my leather boot heels clicking on the wet sidewalk.

The ten forty-five express to the western suburbs was half empty and quiet.

I sat in the third car by the window, leaning my temple against the cold glass as the steel girders of the rail bridge slid past in the dark.

A uniformed conductor with a silver hole punch clipped my monthly pass, handed it back with a quick nod, and moved on down the aisle.