I should not have been surprised when the man sitting next to me on the subway started to lean over my shoulder and read the essays I was grading for my tenth grade biology class. I’ve always had a flair for attracting the attention of the most—shall we say—unconventional passengers: the ex-cons, the aspiring philosophers, the schizoids in need of medication. I could sense the man’s bug-eyed stare from under the folds of a black hoodie as the train pulled out of the station and I tried to make sense of a fourteen-year-old’s half-improvised, half-plagiarized take on evolution.
“Hey,” I heard the man say, “that’s some real Charles Darwin shit, isn’t it?”
Read more of "Before the Astronauts Return to Mars" in Entropy.
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