“I’m the traveler. Right here.” I waved my hand, but he didn’t acknowledge. I suppose that was when I started to suspect I was dead, at the train station. People had been ignoring me all day, from the taxi driver on Fifth, to the coffee girl who usually gave me a wink and a smile. I thought they maybe didn’t like my filthy suit. I couldn’t remember why it was filthy in the first place. I just remembered crossing the street. Some lady told me to be careful, and I woke up in the gutter, late for work. They didn’t acknowledge me there either. So I was dead, and all I could think about was how I didn’t even like the suit I’d picked out that morning. The tie was too purple, a gift from an ex-girlfriend, but I’d been in a rush. I’d rushed to untangle myself from the cocktail waitress in my bed and hurried to get to work; little did I know, I’d been rushing to get myself nailed by a crosstown bus.