The tracks trace the river. He’s setup at the end of the train platform every morning, occasionally getting in the way of the commuters vying for a good spot where they know the train doors will open exactly where they did the day before. He might be 12 or 13. He has professional recording equipment; The stereo microphones are on a stand; The recorder is in a pack hanging on his shoulder. When he hears the train coming, before the train has rounded the bend, he closes his eyes, he puts his arm up and motions for it to arrive as if he’s taxiing a jet onto the deck of an aircraft carrier. The trainmen know him. Their extra effort for him can be heard in the sound. Then there’s the recording, the calm look on his face, eyes still closed, with the soundtrack of the way the sound echos off the other side of the river and back again, harmonizing with its own future self.