He started to whine, his voice high and wounded. “I didn’t mean—” “Enough,” she said sharply, cutting him off. “You’ve done enough already.” She reached down and retrieved her phone, inspecting the screen. A long diagonal crack split across the glass like a quiet accusation. Her jaw tightened.
The mother sat back heavily, blotting at her blouse with a napkin. She didn’t look up again. The boy went silent. His legs hung motionless, sneakers tucked back beneath the seat like they didn’t belong to him. Daniel didn’t gloat. He didn’t turn around again.
He just placed the empty cup on the tray table, rested his head gently against the cool glass of the window, and closed his eyes. The train rumbled steadily on. No more kicks came. Not one. As the train came to a halt, passengers began to file out.
Daniel stood, smoothed his coat, and joined the slow procession down the aisle. As he passed the boy’s row, the mother didn’t look at him. Her face was flushed, her jaw tight. She focused on stuffing tissues into a purse that no longer closed properly.