“That’s not it at all,” said Rupert, “I think you’re an oof!” He hadn’t meant to say that last part. A kid running up and down the commuter train car had run headfirst into Rupert’s stomach. Before Rupert could catch his breath and stall Jermaine’s insulted response, a tunnel cut off cell reception.

“Fuck!” shouted Rupert. Did Jermaine think that Rupert had called him an oaf? He’d wanted to say an amazing man, or partner, or friend--no, that gave the wrong impression--but it didn’t matter now. There was no time. Jermaine’s plane was about to take off--why hadn’t he mentioned the flight? And the timing of the damn tunnel was perverse.

He realized the father was in front of him, the boy back in his seat. “I’m sorry about Alan,” the father said. “I hope he didn’t interrupt anything important.”

Thoughts: “Keep hoping.” “No, my phone calls aren’t important.” “No, he just ruined my private life.”

“No,” Rupert said. “Anything that can be ruined by a child’s collision wasn’t built well to begin with. Sorry I yelled.” The father left, and Rupert wondered if what he’d said was true. If he could believe it.

He could, perhaps, try believing it.