She turned the phone on him. He said, "You can film me. Please do. I am a retired NYPD lieutenant. My name is Robert Kaminski. I am asking you, once, to put your phone down and sit somewhere quiet for the rest of this train ride. If you do not do that, I am going to ask the conductor to remove you at Providence for harassing a minor. I have watched the last four minutes of this. So has everyone else. And you are not pregnant. You are wearing a nine-month sweater that is pushed out

slightly by a large backpack underneath it, which I watched you adjust when you boarded." I looked at her, from the vestibule. He was right. I had not noticed it before. But now that he said it, I could see it — the backpack under the sweater, creating the shape of a bump. The entire vestibule, from the vantage point I had, turned toward her in unison. The woman in the cream sweater said nothing. She put her phone down. She walked, without saying a word, to the empty seat in car four that had opened up when a passenger got off at New Haven. She sat in it for the rest of the ride. Alone. Silent. Her head down. Not filming.