The small bus shelter, filled to the rafters with people, stank of stale cigarette smoke and poor personal hygiene. Mira put one foot into it like the proverbial camel and shuddered. The driving snow stung her eyes like pins. She ducked behind the stained plexi-glass wall of the shelter. The notorious Midwestern wind found its insinuating way to her bones, cutting through the wall and her layers of warm clothing. It was a mean evening to be out on the street waiting for a recalcitrant bus. And peering through what could be spit stains—she remembered standing next to a disturbed teenager who was on a mission to draw spit graffiti on the shelter walls some days back. It had at least been a warmer day. She had been more fascinated by the boy’s sister—for wearing a spaghetti-strap top on a November afternoon from which her ample breasts were flowing out and for keeping up a normal conversation with the boy as he went, Spit! Spit! Spit! Mira did a discreet little jig to keep warm and