Whatever you do, don't look. Keep your head down and mind your own business.

That was the first lesson I learned when I came to Chicago. Where I came from, back in Israel, everyone stares at everyone else. Call it nosy if you want, but that's how it is. But when I got to the States, riding the train from the airport, I got sneered at by a girl with pink hair and a spike through her septum. Dressed like that, who wouldn't look?

So, fifteen years later, taking the red line to work, I kept my nose in my notebook, not looking. The rush-hour suit and tie crowd packed the car, jerking back and forth as we dipped into the subway. I steadied my pen against the paper, trying to write as much as possible before my stop. In addition to being a crime reporter, I was trying to write a novel, but time was turning out to be my biggest obstacle.

At first, I paid no attention to the newspaper tapping my shoulder, figuring some stock broker kept losing his balance and couldn’t control his Wall Street Journal. But then, I heard a gruff voice whisper in my ear.

"Well if it isn't Mayah Goldstein?"

I knew who it was before I turned, the voice too distinct to be mistaken for anyone else's.

"Ron, what are you doing here?"

"Looking for you."