The South. The early 1940s. Lights up on a small-town train depot. There's a bench, a rack of magazines and not much more. A CLERK, a middle-aged white woman with a plain, round face, sits behind the ticket window. She's reading a magazine and drinking from a bottle of soda. A radio plays softly—popular music of the period. The CLERK occasionally fans herself with the magazine. The air outside is hot and still, but inside the depot there's a ceiling fan running to ease the sweltering heat.

The screen door to the depot squeaks open and MAN CODY, a ninety-eight-year-old black man, enters, carrying a child's suitcase. His body is thin but firm under his brown suit, pale blue shirt and tie. He wears a hat. His black shoes are powdered with dust. His skin is like beautiful brown leather and his eyes have grown milky-blue with the years. He puts his suitcase down, removes his hat and mops his brow with his handkerchief. He opens a small purse and looks inside, then closes it. He picks up his suitcase and crosses to the ticket window. His gait is slow but sure. He stands at the ticket window, waiting to be acknowledged. The CLERK does not see him.