Freewrite

Today it is forty-eight degrees and I’m about to miss my train.

Slipping through crowds with less than optimal speed, I’m clutching my baggage to my chest, knowing that if I stop for even a moment, I’d be on the platform seconds after the train chugs away. This could have been easier if the wheels on my suitcase weren’t broken—somewhere between 36th and 38th they broke—and I’ve been lifting it with my right arm just enough to let the broken axels spin as they skim the concrete. My backpack is open, but I don’t realize that, and my red notebook is about to slip out of the small pocket, open like a bird in flight, and release more than fifty loose pages of character outlines into the depths of Pennsylvania Station.

I’m not thinking about that, no—in fact, I’m choosing to think about how I’ll know if I miss the train: if, by some