Once on the street, I say to PJ, “A lot of pain there, a lot going on.” I nod at him as we stand and leave the car. Sadness droops across his face like a clown mask, and his chin drops. “He’s my son.” He’s looking hard at me obviously waiting for an explanation to connect this Black teenager and white woman.

“Foster mom?” I sense an undercurrent of anger, but I’m not sure. “That your social worker? You a foster kid?” I have just tipped my head toward PJ to say something when the man speaks, not to me but to PJ. I nod at him, and he nods back before sitting down across from us. His walk, heel-toe, heel-toe, adds to his rhythm. A jaunty hat perches at an angle atop his grey hair. His dark sweatpants are tucked into cowboy-style boots, transforming them into something a bit more fashionable, his layered shirt, vest, jacket are arranged and colorful. He’s got style, this man, turning grab-bag items from shelter bin into a personality statement. Just before our stop, a man walks down the aisle, shaking coins in a cup, his money-ask a sing-song, sounding like an advertisement jingle. When we just sit, our shoulders bumping gently against each other as the train starts and stops, starts and stops. We look at the mapped route on his phone, discuss how he will get himself home after practice after I’ve headed to work in the north Loop. We are both a bit nervous: new school, new friend possibilities, new commute–downtown Chicago, in the Loop, no less. So he joins his dad and me on our normal walk with the dogs up to the green line train, where we say goodbye to the dogs–and his dad–and get on together. It is his first day of cross country practice at the high school where he will be a first-year student in the fall.

Snip toe cowboy boots