The little bug was lying sideways on the floor, struggling against the trembling train to set itself up again. With three legs scratching the ground and the other three grabbing the air, it had little chance of success from where I stood. The passengers were completely oblivious to its pain. As they came in or stepped out at station after station the bug came many times close to feeling the crush of their soles. It was a lucky bug, I thought. The small woman in front of me, dressed elegantly in a suit and hanging on to her bag, was trying to keep her balance without touching the bars. Her feet moved in jerks as the train shook on the bumps and turns of the railroad. But she did not kill the bug. The big woman did.

Soon the bug was reduced to a small, dark spot on the floor, indistinguishable from the dirty smudge of the shoes. Its legs bent inward and remained still. I kept watching.

There is no Universal Declaration of Bug Rights, whose first declared rights are "the right to life, liberty and security of person." If there were one, I, the knowing and silent observer, would be in breach of it.