Just out of Deanwood, there were shouts from the back of the car.
Craning around, slowly emerging from early evening orange vinyl fog, we saw:
Remaining was a young woman my age with palms outstretched,
Middle aged woman frantically dialing the emergency hotline,
And “step back; doors closing.”
The woman talked into the oily phone, shouting the emphasis for our benefit:
“Yeah…he just snatched her cell phone…out of her HAND.
“She was just holding it in her HAND. And he ran in and took it…
“ran out before the doors closed…orange and black hat. Deanwood.
“Out of her HAND.”
We subtly felt in our pockets for the cubes of metal which vibrated and hummed a reassurance.
The young woman got off at the next stop,
palms still up, as if praising the Lord, as if offering a prayer, as if her hands were weightless.