Sitting on the subway on a freezing Tuesday morning, I watched a guy in a giant puffer jacket very carefully peel a tiny orange, separate it into perfect individual slices, and then look around the train car like he was about to make a major announcement. There were only about six of us in there, all looking miserable and exhausted. He cleared his throat, held up a slice, and said, in this incredibly gentle voice, "Does anyone need a little boost of vitamin C?" Nobody said anything for a second. We’re in New York; usually, when someone addresses the car, you prepare for the worst. But then this exhausted-looking woman in business attire raised her hand, and he walked over and gently dropped a slice into her gloved hand. Then a teenager with headphones took one. I took one too. It was cold, sweet, and tasted like a weird, quiet moment of human connection in a dirty metal tube. We all just sat there chewing our orange slices in silence while the train rattled along. Best commute of my life, honestly.