Brian rounded the corner at Smith and 9th just as the train went by overhead. He almost didn’t notice, so used to the sound was he. Head down, hands in pockets, he didn’t cut much of a figure. Or wouldn’t have, if he wasn’t so short. And wide. He looked like a block of wool trudging down the street. Most of the people around here knew him, but every so often he’d get the looks, the smiles, the laughs. It kept his scowl firmly in place.

He came up to a small group of people hovering around a car. He paused long enough to see what they were looking at. A flat tire on Mrs. Sullivan’s little Honda. Her two teenaged sons were arguing about something while another older man, Mr. Hills the grocer, stood rubbing his head.