The whole profession is like a man who has for the first time caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror before he leaves a room. Walks past the car in the driveway, opting instead for foot traffic, and waves me off when I call after him.

The profession has done this before, often signaling me to take another route or wanting me to take a cab the opposite direction. More than once I have seen it, after a long night of caffeine, hop the tracks and board an outbound train, grinning against the glass with smoker's delight.

I followed the profession out of the house and down the green-treed shoelace of a street, where it led me to a mustard-stained office that shared a parking lot with people buying drive-through food and teenagers lining their cars parallel like old men at a diner.

The profession required me to break the lock, and once inside my hands were red and my conscience grew pink.