On the train heading downtown, I heard a rustling behind me, like a man adjusting his newspaper, but with unusually decisive, sharp, snapping sounds. I glanced back, and at first saw just an average-looking man in a grey suit, who indeed seemed to be folding a newspaper. But then I looked closer and saw the swift, complicated motions he was making with his hands. He was folding the paper with lightning rapidity into hundreds of origami birds, which soon filled his lap. Just as we plunged into the darkness of the tunnel, he flung his arms, loaded with paper birds, open wide. I flinched as they went out in all directions, then gasped: instead of falling to the floor, the origami birds fluttered in the air around our heads, a sudden cloud of winged white. Flying upward, they vanished through the roof of the train and surrounded it, an accompanying flock. For an instant the dark tunnel outside the windows was filled with glimmering birds. Then they were gone, and the train roared on, into the station.