His stare was so intense it felt like he could disintegrate me with a single glance. But I had to drop that thought. My disintegration would ultimately lead to the pie’s disintegration, and that simply could not happen.

I knew in my heart there was only one way to settle this. One terrible, dreadful, heart-rending sacrifice that had to be made if only for the safety of a toddler’s stuffed animal.

I took a breath and slowly inched open the lid of the pie’s box. It was as if a spotlight had come down from the ceiling of the train. Every head turned toward me, dying to see what would happen next. A man in the back seat dropped his donut. An inferior pastry, I thought.

Out of nowhere, quick as lightning, I thrust the still-scalding hot pie into that man’s piggish face, twisting it in until the unknown berries dripped down his pinstripes. Then, with an almighty crash, he tumbled to the floor.

My work here was done. I handed the kid his giraffe and stepped off the train, into the blazing sunset.