The baby sits in the equivalent of an SUV stroller. Big wheels, sturdy handles. He faces his father on BART. In between them is a color Gameboy that commands the father’s attention. The baby, hooded sweatshirt over his dark locks, dark pools peering from under insanely long lashes, sits perfectly upright in his stroller. His small hands grip the tray in front of him. He stares at his father, wide-eyed, not blinking. No response. He closes his eyes, still sitting perfectly upright, not a movement. The father doesn’t notice. The baby leans back in his stroller, stretches and yawns, making gurgling noises. The father’s attention remains intent on the Gameboy. The child pats the wall of the train, running his chubby fingers along the words on the wall. Emergency Door Release. Federal Law Requires These Seats Be Made Available to … No response. The baby begins to lick the words. I want to scream, “STOP IT BABY!” but before my angst reveals itself, the baby gives up, tongue recedes back into mouth. His father’s attention has not left the Gameboy in between them. The baby twists and turns in his stroller, first pulling his hood on and off, then trying to pull the awning of the stroller on and off, but he’s not quite strong enough. He kicks his legs, thump, thump, thump. The father continues to navigate his game. The baby finally seems resigned to the fact that his father is otherwise engaged. He lays his head down on his arm and sighs heavily. The train jerks sharply as we exit a tunnel. The stroller suddenly rolls backward, away, away, away. The father, finally, looks up from the Gameboy, stands up, retrieves the stroller, and pulls it closer to him before returning to his video game. The baby smiles, content.