There was a drizzly rain giving everything a slippery sheen as the black cab pulled up to the curb on the strand.

I got out first, followed by Jack.

Both of us carried heavy briefcases that held anything but business papers and files,

or whatever normal people carried in their briefcases.

The rain wasn't so much a rain as it was the constant presence of minuscule floating droplets in the air,

somewhere between a mist and a shower.

I guess it was better than a drenching rain, but I still cursed it as it settled on the exposed skin of my face and hands.

Even after two years in London, I hadn't gotten used to the foul weather. Jack, on the other

hand, looked perfectly at home, like he'd been born into a drizzle like this. Maybe he had.

He was a London native after all.

Having already paid the cab driver,

Jack and I headed directly for the Charing Cross tube station,

dodging around people that seemed to be as numerous as the tiny water droplets hanging in the air.

We hurried down the stairs. The tan wall tiles and framed

advertisements affixed to them welcoming us to the underground. The place smelled of wet

concrete and body odor, covered by whiffs of cologne and deodorant and perfume from

the people walking past. The seething masses that passed through

these tunnels every day boggled the mind, and I found myself unable to shrug off the disgust

and impatience I felt with those in my way.

"'We've got to move,' I said, seeing Jack trailing behind. I dodged around people, silently cursing them for walking

slowly or not paying attention to where they were going. I had to resist shoving a few people

aside as I hurried down the stairs. At the bottom of two flights of stairs, we came into the station

...