A bite of Lunch: Third Hex

Here is the wide subway platform with its white and green tile walls, the gray concrete floor they hose down with chlorine before the evening rush hour. Upstairs, the Transit Park heroin addicts are having breakfast at the donut and hot dog stand. The token booth squats toadlike in the darkness, breathing its hot exhaust, oblivious to the line of people as a mountain of change is meticulously counted. Metal tips of train pass holders tap against the glass, kids hollering “Pass!” as they plunge through the turnstile with enormous book bags and their noise. Jehovah’s Witnesses stand silently in the shadows, waiting, watching. Harry says they prowl the Heights, ringing doorbells, forcing themselves, smiling, into people’s homes and converting the children before their parents come home from work.

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