Dead Things by Matt Darst Page A

empathize.
    That’s not to say Peter doesn’t have feelings. He can feel anger, happiness, and the full range of emotions. He just doesn’t feel them toward people .
    But he’s a good faker. He’s faked it for nearly thirty years. He’s done everything people would expect, basically everything his father had done before him. He went to college, courted and married his wife, got a job, got a car, got a house. He goes to neighbor’s barbecues, holds Super Bowl parties, laughs at his boss’ horrible jokes. He takes up smoking with his co-workers even though he hates it. Years ago he even considered having an affair. Not because he was attracted to the woman, but because he thought it was the normal thing to do.
    In short, Peter Sumner goes through the motions.
    At least he used to.
    Almost four years ago something changed. His son was born. As soon as Peter held Ian in his arms, looking upon his helpless face, he felt his icy heart break and warmth pass through him in waves. Peter learned what it was to love unconditionally.
    The train approaches, gliding on three rails, the electrified third supplying power to the locomotive. Touch the third rail, and you cook. Signs warn of this in English and Spanish, alerting travelers and vagrants alike.
    The train pulls into the stop, an automated yet polite voice alerting commuters who may have been confused, that this stop is, indeed, Addison. “This is a Red Line train to the Loop.”
    One by one, the passenger cars noisily pass Peter, the rising sun reflecting off the windows. Despite the glare, he can tell that this morning, like most, the train is nearly full.
    The train halts, and Peter makes his way to the door of the lead car. Before entering, he notices four or five people lying across seats, forcing fellow passengers to stand. Peter approaches the door, but stops in his tracks. He’s assaulted by a horrible smell clearly emanating from the car.
    The homeless, he thinks, wincing.
    He threads his way back through the throng, his briefcase angled to open a path before him. He makes his way back to the centerline of the platform, and jogs to the car directly aft. He squeezes on just as the doors slide shut.
    “Excuse me,” he says, moving past the passengers blocking the doors. This is Peter’s pet peeve: ignorant passengers who fail to clear the car’s entrance, prohibiting others from coming and going, especially when there’s plenty of room in the center.
    Peter starts towards the car’s front. “Pardon me,” he begs again, slipping between businessmen and students. He is awkward with his bag and his heavy jacket, and he breaks a sweat as he approaches the emergency door. Fortunately, the area is clear. Peter leans thankfully against the door, his lower back resting against the horizontal handle.
    True to routine, he drops his briefcase to his feet and sinks both into his copy of the Tribune and anonymity.
    “Next stop, Belmont,” a disembodied recording announces. “Doors open on the right in the direction of travel.”
    Peter loosens his tie, the brown and gray stripes wrinkling. He runs his sleeve across his forehead. Since work began to repair the tracks and replace the train stations on the line, the commute has become even more unbearable.
    At Belmont, passengers impede each other’s progress off and on the train.
    An elderly woman presses against Peter apologetically, and he looks with disdain at a seated teen who fails to offer his chair. The teen does not make eye contact with her or Peter. He’s withdrawn into the world of his gaming system.
    The future of America , Peter thinks gloomily. The train proceeds.
    “I love that I can just, you know, veg out with him, you know?” a young woman brays into a cell phone. “It’s just so nice to not have to say anything. We can just be quiet and not have to think, you know? We don’t even have to talk. Hello? Can you hear me?”
    Peter considers telling this twenty-something to use her “inside