There’s a kid on the platform furiously colouring his shoes in with a texta, bent into a zig-zag against the base of a concrete bollard, a batwing of dark hair flapping out from where he’s had it tucked behind his ear. The shoes are canvas and rubber, industrial, and he’s so focused that you can’t help but watch. You watch. He’s so focused and you’d love to be the same. It’s cold out of the sun still; you stare out at the blank back walls of houses, the rails tugging away behind them. You don’t know the shapes of the rooms curled inside. There are blisters tugging at the skin of your heels and you remember the teeth on your collarbones, your ear. You hold your ticket, furiously. You’d love to be the same.