The train pulls into another station. The crowd pours out. But as they land on the platform, their path is diverted. Standing there is a group of seven or eight women. They are all dressed in black. Each one of them is holding up a picture of the same smiling teenage boy. And your heart drops.
You have seen the picture before. It was on the news. The boy, a high school honors student, was killed in the subway just over a week ago under suspicious circumstances. Gunned down by a man who claimed the teenager robbed him. Yet eyewitness accounts and security video footage cast doubt on that story. Still the shooter had yet to be charged.
The women holding the picture are silent. Their faces resolute and yet heartbroken. You get the sense that these are mothers, aunts, grandmothers, neighbors. They had bandaged his scraped knee. They had cooked dinners for him. They had helped him with homework. They loved him. Their hopes and dreams became attached to him.
And then one day he was gone. Their love could not save him. It could not protect him. Their hopes and dreams flickered out with his life.
The woman in the center began to yell. Her dark curly hair billowed as she passionately cried out.
What happened to my son! What happened to my son! Tell me what happened to my son!
The doors to the subway car closed. As the train pulled away, her voice grew louder and louder. It continued to echo as the window gave way to the blur and the darkness.