Clack. Ka-chunk. Clack. Ka-chunk.
The subway stank. Yellow plastic, scrubbed by rot and ignorant crustaceans.
Clack. Ka-chunk. Clack. Ka-chunk.
George looked out the window, the stone walls and blips of color a gray river.
His suit had been nice once, the red tie brighter and well pressed. Now the shirt was stained at the cuffs, the elbows of the jacket patched with the wrong shade of black thread. His hair was thin, and his face lined.
The subway emerged onto a wide trestle, and he could see it.
The stadium. Four spotlights waved, yellow, white, green and blue.
He pressed his forehead against the glass, and closed his eyes for a moment. He could smell the grass.
George sighed, and leaned back. He brought a hand to his collar, and ran a finger around the silver collar at his neck.
He had been Shackled for years — but he never forgot that he was wearing it. Not once. Not even for a moment.
George dug into the white cup of boiled peanuts, and fished around for a large one. He pulled out one that suited, and popped it into his mouth. He looked at the stadium again.
Placing the cup between his legs, George stared at his right hand – at his fingers. He covered it with his left, like a lighter in the wind. He pushed his eyes close to the little cave of his fingers.
George snapped. The barest wisp of green sparks popped to life at the end of his fingers.
He leaned back against the seat. He closed his eyes, and smelled the grass of the stadium.
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