He walks at a labored pace and those that pass him on this busy platform do so with neither a glance nor a nod.
His clammy palms subconsciously hold grip to a leather briefcase, to prevent its slip.
His damp shirt beneath his blazer, selected just hours before with dawns awakened optimism, now restricts his gait and thus disguises his youth.
He has been bitten.
Eight tiny legs, one very small bite … yet possessing one heck of a powerful punch.
Sliding into his seat, the conductor twice assists him in finding his ticket and at once brings him water.
The dreams while the Northeast Regional carves through Summer’s splendid land are medieval, violent and punctuated with the glorious.
Stepping off the rail, his fever’s first wave having just passed, he sucks the cool salt air deep into his lungs while giving the conductor a fatigued wave as he steps into the light.