Sometimes Pan rides crowded innercity buses—

•58/ —on rainy evenings, trapped between women’s oversized purses, wet umbrellas, and college students’ bookbags. The swaying jolt of the metroline lulls him into false slumber, his faded fedora askew on his head, his human knuckles scarred from overtime hours on the warehouse dock. He doesn’t care that his shoes are untied or that his jacket is stained. He simply exists in the twilight, the last run for the night— watching his reflection betray his presence, when no one else glances in his direction. •