Locked Out at the Light Rail Station

Locked Out at the Light Rail Station

I was trying to take the light rail home from my office downtown, but it was pouring rain and all the ticket machines were completely digital, flickering with glaring neon advertisements for some synthetic allergy medication. I couldn't get my phone to scan because the battery died, so I tried using an old transit card embedded in the palm of my hand, but the turnstile kept flashing an angry red error message saying my identity was expired. My old high school chemistry lab partner was behind me in line, wearing a soaked plastic trench coat, tapping his foot and telling me I was holding everyone up. The station platform stretched out endlessly under wet, buzzing billboards, and every train that pulled up was entirely automated and packed with people staring blankly into glowing visors. I kept trying to wipe condensation off the gate sensor with my sleeve, feeling this rising panic that the last train was going to leave me locked out in the dark alley behind the tracks.