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Gray skies and rain, a light wind, and the cold breath of fall coming through the trees as I stepped into the bus shelter and put my umbrella on the bench. I turned around and a woman stood in front of me. She had a warm, gracious smile and wore a white T-shirt, black jeans. She asked, “Would you happen to have a cigarette I could borrow?” I said no, wondering where she came from because she had appeared in front of me as if she had materialized from the pole at the bus stop. And in the cold and wet, her T-shirt seemed inadequate, and there were problems with the question: cigarettes cannot be borrowed or loaned, and I was certain there would never be an opportunity for her to return such a favor. After I answered, she thanked me and turned away quickly, splashing across the asphalt to the man at the stop opposite me. Assuming she asked the same question, it appeared he replied as I had. Then she made her way down Division, a light and happy quality about her as the rain let up and the street became quiet with a pause in the traffic. When the bus approached I looked for her again. A chill went through me as the rain returned with the strength of a mild storm. She must have turned a corner, I thought, or entered a house, or simply disappeared in a way I could not comprehend, my breathe visible now like fog or smoke disappearing into the expanse of clouds above.