By 7:37 a.m., Mara Keane already knew her train would be four minutes late, the short train would stop too far along Crofton Park’s canopy, and if she boarded through the third door she would find a window seat before Nunhead filled the aisle.
She took no pride in it. Knowing was simply more comfortable.
The board announced **DELAYED** with the calm persistence of things that do not apologize. Around her, people redistributed themselves on the platform. A man in a work jacket began walking forward. Two schoolgirls left their bench. Mara did not move. The short train stopped exactly where expected, and its third door opened before her.
The previous evening, she had checked the planned work on the line and chosen the train that gave her nine minutes’ margin at Farringdon. Nine, not ten: ten would have made her leave earlier for nothing. Mara disliked waiting when she could turn the wait into a calculation. She knew which Farringdon exit saved two pedestrian crossings, which bakery opened before eight, and how long Farah took on average to answer a message containing the word *urgent*. Most of this information did not matter. Together, it gave her the feeling that a day had edges.
A stroller briefly blocked the door. Mara reached out and held it while the mother turned the stroller, receiving a breathless thanks. She noticed the child wore only one mitten. Before sitting down, she looked beneath the seats, found the other caught near a shoe, and returned it.
“You see everything, don’t you?” the woman said, smiling.
Mara smiled back. She did not say that was precisely the problem.
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