An M.T.A. bus dispatcher approached me and asked where I was going.

Up Sixth Avenue toward the fifties, I said.

Follow me, he said.

He led me to an empty bus that was idling nearby.

My driver is late and he will drive you to your destination without any stops, the dispatcher said. And, he added, the fare is on us.

I boarded the empty bus and introduced myself to the driver. He said his name was France.

France? I said. Is that truly your name? My father was from France. Was he sending me a signal.

Off we went up Sixth Avenue, not stopping until I got off at 49th Street.

— Anna Moine

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Feeling Good

Dear Diary:

It was 1979 and I had just moved to New York for a job. I was headed downtown on a not-too-crowded No. 4 train. I was freshly showered in a new suit and polished shoes and feeling good.

I saw a well-dressed young woman across the car looking at me. She smiled.

A few minutes later, when the train stopped at 14th Street, the woman walked up to me and handed me a folded piece of paper before getting off the train.