Deep Fathom

Before
8:14 A.M., Pacific Standard Time San Francisco, California
On the morning of the eclipse, Doreen McCloud hurried from Starbucks with the Chronicle tucked under her arm. She had a ten o'clock meeting across town and less than an hour to ride the train to her offices near the Embarcadero, Clutching her mocha and shivering at the morning chill, she strode briskly toward the undergroundstation at Market and Castro.
Glancing toward the sky, she frowned. The night's blanket of fog had yet to burn off, and the sun was only a pale glow through the mists. The eclipse was due to occur just after the four o'clock hour today—the first solar eclipse of the new millennium. It would be a shame if the fog marred the sight. She knew from the inundation in the media that the entire city waspoised to celebrate the event. San Francisco could not pass up such an auspicious occasion without the usual fanfare.
Doreen shook her head at all the nonsense. With San Francisco's damned eternal fog, why did a few extra momerits of gloom warrant such fervency? The event was not even a total eclipse.
Sighing, she pushed aside these stray thoughts as she snugged her scarf tighter about herneck. She had more important concerns. If she could land the Delta Bank account, her track to partnership in the firm was assured. She allowed this thought to buoy her across Market Street toward the BART station.
She reached the station just as the next train approached. Fumbling her transit card through the reader, she hurried down the steps to the platform and waited for the train to come to astop. Content she would make her meeting in plenty of time, she raised the cup of mocha to her mouth.
A yank on her elbow pulled the cup from her lips. Hot mocha splashed in a chocolate arc as the cup flew from her hands. Gasping, she swung around and'faced her attacker.
An elderly woman, dressed in mismatched rags and a tattered blanket, stared up at Doreen with eyes that looked somewhere otherthan here. Doreen had a flashback to her mother in bed: the reek of urine and medicines, slacken features, and those same empty eyes. Alzheimer's.
She stepped back, reflexively guarding her handbag under an arm. But the old woman, clearly homeless, seemed no immediate threat. Doreen expected the usual inquiry about spare change.
Instead, the woman continued to stare at her with those emptyeyes.
Doreen took another step away; a twinge of sorrow pierced through her anger and fear. The eyes of the other commuters slowly turned away. It was the way of the city. Don't look too closely. She tried to follow suit but could not. Maybe it was the flash upon her own long-buried mother or some twinge of sympathy, but either way, she found herself speaking. "Can I help you?"
The old womanshifted. Doreen spotted a half-starved terrier pup hidden among the drape of rags about her ankles. It stuck close to its master. Doreen could count every rib on the thin creature.
The homeless woman noticed Doreen's gaze. "Brownie knows," she said hoarsely, her voice graveled by age and the streets. "He knows, all right."
Doreen nodded as if this made sense. It was best not to provoke thementally ill. She had learned that with her mother. "I'm sure he does."
"He tells me things, you know."
Doreen nodded again, suddenly feeling foolish. The train doors opened with a whoosh behind her. If she didn't want to miss the train, she'd best hurry.
She began to turn away when a withered arm shot out from under the tattered blanket; bony fingers clutched her wrist. Instinctively, Doreenyanked her arm away. But to her surprise, the old woman hung on.
With a shuffle of rags, the woman moved closer. "Brownie's a good dog." The harsh voice was thick with spittle. "He knows. He's a good dog."
Doreen broke the woman's grip. "I... I must be going."
The woman did not resist. Her arm vanished under her blanket's folds.
Doreen backed her way into the open door of the train, her eyes...