Size Matters (And Other Transit Announcements): The Menopause Grimoire Book Five

Eight million people ride her subway line. Not one of them has looked at her in fifteen years. Then something came up out of the tunnel. Frankie, 39, works the overnight at the 168th Street station. Bulletproof glass, a four-inch ledge, two cameras that have been out of focus since 2016. At 2 AM a group corners a woman on her platform, and before the cops bother showing up, a man walks out of the tunnel, too wide and too calm and too much, puts himself between them like a wall in a doorway, and then kneels down to check her hands. He comes back. With coffee, in a dented thermos, centered on her ledge with the handle turned toward the glass. He has opinions about pigeon parliamentary procedure. He considers moths unpunctual. He is also four hundred and twenty-nine years old, from Crete, and the face he is wearing is not his. Now the mayor wants the tunnel where his people live, and a woman who has spent fifteen years being invisible is about to find out that nobody watching you is the most useful weapon she has ever had.