The man got on the bus shouting.
Not at anyone in particular at first. Then at the driver, because the card reader wouldn’t take his card, and then it did, and the driver said something about holding people up, and the man swore and slammed his hand on the rail.
The whole bus went tight. People looked at their phones. A woman pulled her child closer. Someone behind Eli muttered, “State of him.”
Eli didn’t say anything. He’s fifty-two, and he’s learnt to watch before he speaks. So he watched.
The man sat down two seats in front of him, breathing hard. His hands were shaking. Not angry-shaking. Something else. There was a plastic bag on his lap — the thin white kind — with a pharmacy label stapled to it. And on his wrist, half under his sleeve, a hospital wristband. The paper kind they give you in A&E.
The man wasn’t coming from a fight. He was coming from a hospital. Or going back to one.
Eli didn’t say anything clever. He leaned forward slightly and said, quietly, “Long night?”
The man turned. For a second his face was all defences. Then it just… collapsed.
“My dad,” he said. “They’re saying it could be any time. I went home to get his glasses. He wanted his glasses.” He held up the bag. “I’m sorry about all that. I’m not — I’m not usually like that.”
“I know,” Eli said. “Most people aren’t.”
The man got off at the hospital stop. As he stood up, he said “sorry” to the driver. The driver nodded. The woman with the child watched him go, and her face had changed.
Eli sat back. Look closer, he thought. Listen longer. Judge a little slower. He doesn’t always manage it. Nobody does. But today, he had.