“Hey, Indiana!” we yelled. We’d given up on the Q Line; the wait was over an hour. We saw Indiana at the next bus stop. “Oh, hey!” she waved. “Can I walk with you?” We walked together down Woodward, talking about the concert, the people we’d seen, the blisters we were getting from our impractical shoes. She gave me a bracelet. We gave her advice about what she should see in Detroit the next day. We said maybe we’d see each other at breakfast. But we never saw her again, and we never learned her real name.
