In my journalism elective, I was told that the easiest questions are usually the simplest ones, and the simplest ones will get you all you need to know—if you know how to ask them and how to read between the lines. I know the where.

“Are you lost?” he asks again.

“No, I’m from around here too.”

“Which part?”

“H—” Nope, can’t say that. “Nearby. I must have gotten off at the wrong station. Can you point me to Forest Hills?”

He frowns. He has an expressive face. You can see every emotion on it. I guess he can’t help wearing his heart on his sleeve.

“Forest Hills? The Orange Line?” I ask.

“I know what you mean. Just never heard someone ask me that before. Odd question. Hard to spot and all,” he says with a sarcastic tone.

“Sorry?”

A heavy awkwardness appears between us as suddenly as a spring shower. His face twists into a confused expression, a mix of Is this boy dangerous? and What is he talking about?

But he speaks softly, not like he’s scared, like he’s concerned. “You okay, boss?”

I should just say yes and walk away—in any direction. I should say goodbye, thank him, and move on.

But I never do things the easy way. At my core, I’m a problem solver. And this is a problem worth solving.

The boy points in the general direction that I need.

“Thanks,” I reply, taking a few steps before pausing and turning to him. But I stop. I need to know something first.

“What did you mean my question was odd?”

“First you don’t know where one of the ugliest T stops is, and now you’re asking me an obvious question,” he teases. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” Which is a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that. I employ a tactic my mom uses—silence. Eventually, he’ll get uncomfortable and answer. In three, two, one…

“T stops are easy to spot,” he caves, fishing out a cigarette and lighter. “I mean, they’re aboveground, loud, ugly as shit, and—”

Hold up. “Stop,” I interrupt. “You said its aboveground?”

“Mm-hmm.” He lights the thin white cancer stick in two clicks.

“Forest Hills is underground.”

“Underground?” he repeats, voice muffled with the cig in his mouth. He pulls it out, holding it between two long fingers. “That would be something, wouldn’t it? No. Pretty sure I know my stations.”

“Me too.”

Silence again, except this time it’s not my doing. He narrows his eyes curiously, scanning me, it feels like, for information.

“You sure you okay, boss?”

“I’m fine,” I repeat. Why is this guy saying the station is aboveground? What a stupid thing to lie about. It’s something I can confirm easily, and—

Wait.

Wait.