The woman looks exhausted. Even her dull brown hair looks exhausted. “Jay’s not a baby anymore,” she says. “He’s running all over the house and he gets into everything and it’s just, I’m trying but … I just need a little help—”

The man snorts and rolls his eyes. “Here we go.”

“Just a little help,” the woman continues, her words coming faster as if she can race her argument past him. “Maybe just twice a week, only two days. Marjorie has a full-time nanny and that’s too much, I don’t need a full-time—”

“Do not bring my sister into this,” the man says, holding up a finger in his wife’s face. “Do not.”

“Hey,” I say, putting just enough snap into my voice to interrupt them without shouting. They both stop talking and turn to stare at me. The toddler kicks his feet and grins at me. “Ba,” he says. “Ba, ba, ba, ba.”

“Yeah, ba,” I say to him with a smile. I glance at the woman. “Cute kid,” I say, and she blinks. Then I return my attention to the man. “Can you dial it down a little?”

“Excuse me?” he says, surprised but with an undercurrent of outrage.

“You’re berating her in public,” I say. “Thought maybe you should rein it in some.”

Other passengers are watching us now with sidelong looks. I see the man realize we have an audience, and I know he’s going to stand up a full second before he does.

“Baby, don’t—” the woman says.

“Is there a problem here?” the man asks me, standing in the aisle. “I’m having a conversation with my wife.”

I shrug. “A pretty public conversation. I’m just asking you to make it less public and less angry, that’s all.”

“Bankie!” the toddler shouts.

“Bankie,” I say to him, agreeing. He shrieks happily and hurls his blankie in the air. It unfurls like a flag in a breeze and then collapses onto the floor in front of him.

“Don’t talk to my son,” the man says. He leans forward in a way that’s intended to be domineering. “Don’t talk to him. Don’t listen in on other people’s—”

“Honey,” the woman says.

He pins her with a glare. “I’ve got this,” he says. She closes her eyes. He swivels his head back to me. “I don’t know what your problem is, but—”

“Bankie!” the toddler says, trying to lean forward to get the blanket on the floor of the train.

“Your son,” I say, indicating the blanket. “He wants—”

“I told you to leave my son alone.”

“Honey,” the woman says, “she’s just—”

“I said I’ve got this!”