Photo Source: Unsplash We were a hungry pockmarked mass, a hundred strong, our hopes honed on the train: pilgrims in larval boots and robes pristine enough to mock the filthy station, an engineer from Lagos with Scripture etched into his occiput, an architect from my own hemisphere with rolling black-ringed eyes and flesh that jiggled in the zero-g, and the sallow mother in the cabin across from mine, her shaven scalp so pale I could see her brain each time her turban slipped. To get away...

Photo Source: Flickr The blizzard began the night I broke my sister’s music box, and reached its peak the day the ambulance came. I’d...