He opened the door a crack and pushed her through. The repaired skin on her chest flared with pain as it scraped the doorframe, then she found herself pressed into the back of an unconscious man held upright by the crush of people. His head was loose on his neck, open mouth and closed eyes facing the ceiling. It was hard to see the far end of the carriage through the crowd of unemployed; they all wore the same blue-striped denim overalls and stood pressed together. Thin grab handles hung, useless, from the ceiling. No arms reached up—there was no point; they couldn’t fall over. The smell was terrible, the stink of sweat, urine, and blood overpowering in the still air. She saw a hierarchy to the mob: the young and strong to the sides—shaved heads angled up to air vents; the old and infirm in the middle. She’d only been inside a few moments, but she was sweating, her body shedding vital liquid. Even a short ride in these conditions would be a test, and some people had travelled all the way from New York. Desperate for a new life they left on a bus to a round of applause only to find themselves crushed into this tube and flung across country.