Michael shoved his way through the flood of commuters towards the open doors. He pushed his way off the train just before the doors clamped shut. The immediate screech of the train echoed off the cement walls as it sped forward into the tunnel. The underground BART station was chaotic, with a mix of commuters, tourists and local moving in every which direction. A performer stood in the center of the platform playing a slow, simple melody on his worn, out of tune violin.
As Michael walked across the platform, he accidentally made eye contact with the performer, who gave him a nod and looked at the case. Michael opened his wallet, pulled out a five, and placed it in the case. The man said, "God bless you," as Michael hurried by.
Why was there smoke? Why were there police there? It wasn’t a coincidence, but he couldn’t be seen at the crime. It was possible that they’d identified him in Alaska, but he knew it had nothing to do with whatever had happened at Mimsy’s house.
Michael rubbed the scar on his bicep as he rode the escalator up to ground level. He turned right and began wandering down Market Street towards the Ferry Building. The skyscrapers towered into the sky on both sides of the noisy street. He wasn't quite sure what he was doing, or where he was going, but needed to get away from home. The city seemed like a place where he could be surrounded by people and alone at the same time. He could simply be a person in the crowd while having no idea where he was going.
With no destination in mind, Michael mindlessly followed a crowd down Embarcadero towards the Bay Bridge. Water from the bay splashed against the pier, adding a hint of salt to the urban reek.
"Do you need tickets?" a man asked, snapping Michael from his drift.
The group he'd been walking with had turned into a sea of orange and black. He looked up at the large coke bottle peaking it's top over the left-field wall. The man in front of him was middle-aged, fit, and had a smoky gray beard. A flat bill cap hugged the top of his seemingly bald head.
"How much is a ticket?" Michael asked, pulling out his wallet.
"Sixty for two." The man answered, pulling the tickets from his coat.
"I only need one." Michael regretted that he'd pulled out his wallet.
"These are great seats. Section 302, right behind the dugout. I bought them for two hundred. Sixty's a steal."
"I'll pay forty-five for one," Michael said.
The man adjusted his cap as if he were in deep contemplation before blurting out, "Enjoy the game."
To Michael's slight surprise, the ticket scanned, and he was allowed into the stadium. He stood in the middle of the ground level walkway for a moment to scan the area. The company had made him paranoid. They must be here, they must have followed him. Michael listened to the hustle of the crowd, the laughter, he scanned the lines at the concession stand.
"Mr. Robinson?" A voice from across the way yelled. He turned to see an electric vehicle inching through the crowd towards him. "I had a feeling I'd see you here," Bill the parking lot patrolman was smiling ear to ear.
"Bill, it's nice to see you too," Michael replied. He had a brief thought that Bill was possibly the only person in his life right now that actually liked him as a person.
"How was the bachelor party?" Bill let out an exaggerated wink. "To be honest, I didn't even know you were engaged."
"It was good, the last few weeks have been a bit crazy."
"That's my wife right over there," he pointed towards what was quite possibly the most beautiful woman Michael had ever seen. She smiled and waved at them.
"That's your wife?" Michael asked.
"Yessir. We met at an ice cream shop." Bill smiled, "She's a little bit needy, though."
Michael shot a second glance at the woman, then something caught his eye past Bill's wife. Bill kept rambling, and Michael let out a "Shoot," beneath his breath.
"Is everything alright, Mr. Robinson?" Bill said, noticing the look of concern on his face.
Michael began to walk away from Bill. "Everything is fine. I just want to make sure I'm there on time for the first play."
"Quit pulling my leg!" Bill let out a laugh, "You know it's called the first pitch."
Michael half smiled and began to walk swiftly the opposite way across the platform. Had she noticed him? She couldn't have seen him, but she knew he was here. She'd find him. He picked at the scar on his arm. Could he just rip the tracker out of his skin? What had he they said? Some teeth would rip out his flesh if he tried?
He moved swiftly, dodging in and out of the crowd. He jogged down the stairs, bumping into fans as he went. A father yelled as Michael's wreckless movements knocked his son's nachos to the ground. The fans who witnessed the atrocity booed as Michael jogged out of the stadium into a cluster of people.
Michael slowly made his way through the crowd, keeping his head low. A block away, the mob began to thin, and he started to jog. His lungs ached as he continued to push faster and harder, hoping to make it back to the train.
A bicycle on the street dinged it's bell ferociously to his left. Michael ignored the sound. The ringing became obnoxious, causing Michael to sneak a glance.
The biker had a goofy grin on his face as he took one hand off his handlebars to wave. Michael stopped suddenly. The biker zipped past and skidded to a stop. He rolled the bike up the curb to Michael, who was bent over catching his breath.
Stuart dinged the bell a few more times and laughed. “Welcome back.”