A woman boards the yellow line. It’s the Mercy Hospital-Duquesne University stop. She wears a crisp navy blue pantsuit and pearl earrings. Sits down beneath the map of Pittsburgh. Stares straight ahead.

Her cell phone rings and she glances at the name. Her eyes roll skyward but she answers. She speaks quietly into the receiver for a moment. Then, tears roll down her cheeks.

“We lost it,” she says, whispering, her eyes clamped shut. “We lost it. That’s it. No more.”

The train slides to a stop at Forbes and Murray and I walk past the woman as I exit. I want to know what she’s lost and if she’ll ever be able to get it back. I want to put my hand on her shoulder and squeeze it tightly. I want her to go home to the arms of someone she loves and sob uncontrollably. I want everything to be all better for her.

But instead I just walk up the steps and emerge onto the busy street. The smell of decaying leaves is fierce and the wind whips my scarf.