A handful of commuters hopped onto my train at Union Station; they must have been friends or coworkers, because they were chatting up an annoying storm of wisecracks and office cubicle humor. Way too cheery for that time of morning. The one older guy had his back to me. His backpack had one of those clear vinyl windows into the small pocket. The pocket itself was empty, except for a single unattached keychain, the kind you get at tourist traps and carnivals, clear plastic so you can slip in a picture or nametag or something. His contained one of those photos taken when you're on a rollercoaster of yourself in midscream, taken maybe fifteen years ago. Downright peculiar.
Oh, and I saw one nurse at Foggy Bottom, slightly older lady, with dreads the exact color or Raggedy Ann's hair.