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246 54 Aside from a few dirty looks—me being a rule ­ breaker and all with my bike on the BART train at rush hour—it was just an­ other day for most of these peo­ ple. And yet, was it ever just an­ other day? All of us deep in the mid­ dle of some story that can sud­ denly turn. Some of the peo­ ple on the train ­ looked sad, some ­ looked con­ tent, and some ap­ peared com­ pletely numb. Fact was, there were good and bad sto­ ries run­ ning along all ­ around me, ­ threads all. I re­ mem­ bered that last ­ thread ­ Jimmy’d ­ pulled off a seat in one of these ­ trains. Was this the same train? And if so, which seat would it be? I saw a lady doing her­ makeup in the seat that cor­ re­ sponded to the one we would have sat in that sweet year ago. She ­ looked like a clown. Then I ­ searched the bike for that ­ thread and found it fast, re­ mem­ ber­ ing that ­ Jimmy’d tied it right near where he’d ­ painted Chief Jo­ seph in cheap ­ dime-store paint. That ­ thread’s story was us. That ­ thread’s story is this story. ...

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