Boston Baked Beans

"How's your lunch? I can't eat on the train, myself."

"Great! My favorite. Boston baked beans."

"I don't believe in Boston, you know."

"You don't? Here's a letter with a Boston postmark."

"Forged, maybe."

"What about this photograph of the skyline?"

"Doctored."

"My sister was born there."

"She only thinks so. She was too young to know where she was born."

"Well, my brother lives there now, and he calls me every Friday."

"You can't tell. He might be calling you from anywhere."

"Look out the window! The train is stopping. The sign says 'Boston.'"

"Seriously, how can any of us really know what's on the other side of a window?"

"See all the people here in the station? They all live here."

"I might be delusional. They don't prove anything."

"Feel the concrete! Hear the traffic! Smell the harbor!"

"Just electro-chemical signals across my synapses, or deep-seated psychosis. We've been through all that before."

"What would it take to convince you?"

"Facts. I only believe in things that can be demonstrated conclusively."

"Have the rest of my beans."

"Thanks! Where'd the recipe for these things come from, anyway?"