It had rained overnight and, as a result, Thursday morning was depressingly muggy. The good part: the sun hung in a cloudless sky. The bad part: I did not want to go to work. So, when I boarded the Bathurst Street car that morning for the last leg of my journey, I did it with heavy shoulders.

“Hi there, stranger!”

The female voice that emanated from a location behind me was cheery and welcoming. But most of all it was familiar. And it stopped me dead in my tracks. Like the slice of bread at the end of a loaf, the passengers following at my rear slammed up against me to complete the human loaf. Not the most pleasant experience during a time of high humidity. Wrapped around the vertical handrail for dear life, I watched with bated breath as each scowling-faced commuter pushed by...