Five nights a week at approximately 12:15 AM walking home through the Stockton tunnel staring at the sidewalk stepping over trash and puddles and needles and other city scenery while deeply entrenched in thoughts of the hours past, each night while on this path I pass a security guard likely on his way home, in security guard uniform of nondescript khaki pants and official blue security guard blazer, walking just as quiet and intently as I and deeply entrenched in thoughts of days past head down and moving with purpose.

Each night for nearly six months we pass in the Stockton tunnel only mildly aware of one another, never exchanging more than a glance or a nod, never speaking or saying hello or goodbye or any such pleasantries, only a merciful and somewhat forced acknowledgement that the other exists as we pass in the Stockton tunnel stepping over puddles and trash and needles and other scenery.

Five nights a week for six months this routine was un-changed, each night the same as the last, in the Stockton tunnel at approximately 12:15 AM we’d pass and nod and go on with our lives and nothing more.

Last night he wasn’t there, and I couldn’t help but worry.