He was a smallish man, somewhat nondescript in that he did not look particularly menacing. Nor did he look middle eastern, or arabic as the stereotype of a suicide bomber might call for. He did not have the thousand yard stare of a man about to die. He did not have the blissful, peaceful half drugged smile of someone about to hurtle a thousand pieces of his mortal body in all directions while sending his soul to Allah and 40 infidels to whatever hell their sins might dictate.

He wore a bulky green fatigue jacket, buttoned all the way to the top and he kept his hands inside the pockets as he sat on the seat alone. People stood nearby, but none seemed willing to sit beside him as the train accelerated away from the platform. More than a few just stared at him when they thought he wasn’t looking and a few stirred uncomfortably, one or two moving away down the aisle into the next car.

Fear stirred like bile in my belly as I watched him. Though it wsn’t my stop, I exited the train at the very next station.