So the other day I watched a bus conductor. He hung by the door of the bus, angled slightly outward as he bellowed on the top of his voice for passengers. His crescendo undulated, rising and falling intermittently in the traffic. He looked so tired, so worn. And I wondered what his story was. Did he have dreams? Did a smile ever crack that now expressionless face? How often did it happen? What were his hopes as a child? Did he ever plan to be where he was?

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