There was a screamer on the train.

But every train by nature has a resident orator, and Oli knew the protocol. Eyes down, head ducked, headphones  in, volume up. The alightment loudspeaker broke after Second Ave anyhow.

It wasn’t until Eighth Ave that she realized he’d displaced. And was sitting directly across from her.

“Are you okay?” the screamer asked.

He asked in the tone of a helicopter mother whose thumb was already dialing 911. Oli’s eyes dropped to the beaded chain clutched in hand. It’s not a necklace! Oli’s grandmother had yelled years ago, snatching the rosary from her hand. You’re much too lucky for a child, she’d added, replacing it with a garbage bag to be taken out. 

He’d been praying, not prophesizing. Oli hitched her backpack tighter, feeling like the world’s biggest dick.

“You’re just so young,” he went on. “And you’re all the way on ten.”

Tenth Ave, the sign on the platform agreed.

(“There’s not much to do around there,” Oli’s friend had warned, handing over a spare key.

“Astronomers live for not-much-to-do,” she’d replied, dreaming of open fields and no light pollution.)

“Going all the way to 121st!” said Oli, now desperate to please.

The old man’s eyes bulged. He slid away. At the next stop, he fled before the doors had fully opened.

The woman at the far end met Oli’s eyes. They both looked hastily away.

She fell out of another tree today, she’d overheard her grandmother saying to the neighbor. This was the first summer Oli had visited her grandmother’s village: so far it seemed that the only thing to do was lean against fences and gossip. And got run over by a car last week. Not a scratch! The neighbor accidentally met Oli’s eyes, nervous, and looked away. An imbalance, the neighbor said. That one is putting something off – from Before.

The carriage emptied and the countryside grew more sparse. Only the odd rusty phone booth or fireworks!! sign broke up the endless expanse of trees.  

Thirty-Ninth Ave, the sign on the platform proclaimed, the e peeling and rusted. Fifty-Second Ave. Seventy-Seventh Ave. The train was now empty.

At Eighty-Seventh Ave, a glittering figure materialized on the bench across. Oli threw up a hand, shielding her eyes.

The priest, in garb more appropriate for the middle ages, was still glowing. He was also transparent. He stared at her in equal parts horror and concern.

“My child,” he said fervently, “surely there is no mortal sin of the flesh that would propel someone so young to the tenth decade.”

The loudspeaker crackled to life.

“One-hundred Twentieth Ave,” said the smooth robotic voice.

It was then, headphones dangling around her neck, that Oli realized it was pronouncing Ave strangely — with emphasis on the second syllable.

Two aves, she remembered a priest assigning her penance at confession, when her grandmother would drag her to Wednesday night mass. Do you have any more of those cracker things? young Oli had asked the priest, who’d narrowed his eyes. Eight aves.

The spirit was holding himself warily; watching her the way you’d watch a feral snarling tiger.

“One-hundred twenty-first ave,” the announcement said, passive-aggressively. The doors slid open.

“Er,” said Oli, “wrong line,” and bolted outside.

Two gossiping spirits huddled under the canopy stared at her in terrified admiration. The one in Renaissance garb extended a hand. Clutched inside was parchment map of the area. “The farmer’s market is on Tuesday.”

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