My father and I got on the train at Downtown Crossing. It was crowded. He got a seat, I had to stand. Being packed in like sardines, I couldn’t really see much. I did hear, however, the sound of a liquid falling onto the floor. I assumed someone spilled a drink or something, so I didn’t take much note of it. When we arrived at the next station, I saw some parents rushing their kid out of the train, saying that he was sick. Again, I didn’t take much note of it. Eventually, the train cleared out and I got a seat. Looking over at one of the doors, I saw a big pile of lumpy, pale liquid. “Is that vomit?” I whispered to my father. “Ew, I think so,” he whispered back. “Let’s switch cars.” When the train arrived at the station, we made a mad rush for the doors to go to another car. Looking back, I saw some people just casually stepping over the vomit to get out (although with a grossed out expression). Others would stop and then go to another door. I was glad to get out, and let me just say that I sincerely feel sorry for the guy who had to clean that up.