The woman looked about thirty-five. She was wearing an oversized cream-colored sweater. She was carrying a large leather backpack on one shoulder and a to-go coffee from Starbucks in her other hand. She squeezed through the vestibule. She stopped six feet from me. She looked at me. She looked at my suitcase. She looked at my face. And she said — in a tone that was already, even in the first sentence, loud enough to turn three other heads in the vestibule — "Excuse me. I'm pregnant and I need to sit down. Can you move your bag?" I want to tell you what I saw in that moment, because it is relevant later. Her

sweater was loose but not tented. I could not see a bump. Her posture was not the posture of a pregnant woman in her second or third trimester — she was leaning forward on her hip in a way that was inconsistent with carrying weight in her abdomen. She also did not look, at any point, tired. Her voice was sharp. She was holding a coffee — which pregnant women can drink, legally and medically, but which was, at least to me, one of several small pieces of evidence that I was being asked to participate in a specific kind of performance. I did not say any of this. I said, "I'm sorry, I've been standing for an hour. There's a conductor three cars up. He can help you find a seat."