When she was a little girl in Poland the woman had the same reoccurring dream:

She was in a field, or wait, maybe she was the field? No, she was just a flower growing in the middle of it. No, she was a cow eating the flower; that seems more correct. A wolf came out of the nearby forest and clamped onto the cow's neck and then ate the cow and she was the wolf too, of course. On her way back to the tree-line of the forest she was also a hunter with a nondescript gun who shot the wolf in the spine and then walked out of the trees to still the kicking animal with a slash to the throat with a nondescript knife. Suddenly a car would jump over the horizon like a cartoon and plow right over the hunter leaving red tire marks as it screeched to a halt, and she was the pretty blond lady that got out of the car with her hand over her mouth and who couldn't quite make sense of what she had done. She wasn't the next thing that attacked the pretty blond lady and left her torn open in the middle of the field (she never got a good look at that) but she was a flower that sprang up from the corpse.

Her mother had thought this an odd dream for a six year old girl to have and told her to keep it to herself.

The woman hadn't had the dream in years, and had in fact forgotten about it entirely, but lately it had come back. She understandably wasn't very happy with this, and she also wasn't very happy with the random daydreams she'd been having ever since she'd started having the dream again. She'd started praying the rosary a lot more.

The girl on the subway across from the woman rarely remembered her dreams, but that night she had a nightmare about a red spider with long thin legs bouncing and moving with precision on a web of varicose blue.

8 Minutes Earlier...

She had some thick ankles, this woman.

"Zdrowas Mario, laskis pelna Pan z Toba..."

Of course, had the girl sitting across from the woman in the sparsely filled subway car not begun her examination from the floor up, she might have first noticed the fact that this fat-ankled woman, with the extensive varicose veins creeping upwards from beneath thin nylon socks, veins like tributaries of ink soaking through rice paper, was intently focused a set of rosary beads gripped protectively close to her chest with stubby pale fingers. As it was, the girl was too intently focused on the woman's ankles to yet examine further up.

"Blogoslawionas Ty miedzy niewiastami I blogoslawiony owoc zywota Twojego Jezus"

The rosary and the surgical precision with which the woman manipulated the beads with her fore-fingers and thumbs would have been a useful clue as to what the woman was muttering under her breath. For the girl however, the alien-sounding language was little more than aural accompaniment to the discomfiting nature of the blue lines, some as thin as thread others thick as yarn, that formed a net around legs until the woman's dark knee length dress thankfully cut off visualization of just where those lines might terminate. Had her complexion been darker the lines could have maybe seemed to coalesce, giving her legs a red or bruised color, but the pale whiteness instead served as a complementary backdrop highlighting the vividness of the blues that from time to time darkened to even purple. Some of the veins submerged slightly below the translucent skin and some looked to have fought their way to the surface and some beyond. One particularly dark vein that twisted around the leg like a vine looked to be as thick as a drinking straw.

"Swieta Mario, Matko Boza, módl sie za nami grzesznymi teraz i w godzine Smierci naszej."

The girl's ankles weren't fat, but they weren't thin. She hoped an unformed prayer to God that they never looked like that.

"Zdrowas Mario, laskis pelna Pan z Toba..."

The woman's mumbling had started off inaudible but was slowly gaining volume.

Next: What is going on with the lady and just maybe... what does this have to do with anything?