In a crowded subway car, I hear a male voice, close to my ear. We’re on an express train somewhere between Grand Central and Union Square, and I worry that I have a situation on my hands. But he isn’t talking to me. He’s reading out loud from “Only You Can Save Mankind,” by Terry Pratchett. His head is a mass of dark, wayward curls, and a young woman leans into him, listening and idly tugging on his Harry Potter-esque scarf. She’s wearing purple leg warmers with oversized yellow buttons down the sides. Between her boots, laced tight with rainbow laces, is an orange bag stuffed with smaller white plastic bags—it looks like a creamsicle. A single, surprised “Oh!” escapes her chapped lips at something he’s read. They aren’t on the subway; they’re in the story, saving mankind. He holds her head against his chest with his gloved hand, and she turns the page for him.

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In The New Yorker