A Dead Smartphone Underground and a Connection to Make

Dear Diary:

It’s about 5 a.m. in Brooklyn, and my first day on the job starts at 9:30. I can’t sleep. Why not take the subway and see how long it’ll take, you know, just in case? In minutes I’m showered, dressed and making my way down President Street.

The 4 is out of service. Blast. I hop the 3 to Barclays Center. The cab is dead and the passengers are mute. It’s raining outside. I keep glancing at the map, making sure I keep note of the stops, as my smartphone is lifeless and I’m disconnected.

When we arrive at Barclays, several passengers and I hurry to the middle track, where we await the 4. Within minutes it approaches, on the wrong track. Scatter.

Several of us rush down the stairs, telling passers-by of the mishap and to follow quickly. One trips; some double back to help. Others take long, double-step strides to reach the departing train. “Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”

There’s one laggard, a nurse. I reach out to hold the door open against the signs that say not to. She boards the train safely. My phone’s still dead, but we are all most certainly still connected.

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