By Nick Puleo
My cell phone didn’t have reception.
It usually is not something I would think too much about while riding the Red Line from Northeastern back to my home in Quincy. On Thursday, this one little thing, something I usually never worry about, could have made the difference between life and death.
Sitting, reading the latest edition of The Northeastern News, all I wanted to do was to get home and take a nap. The train jerked as we pulled into South Station and someone bumped into me, hard. Then it happened. A group of teenagers came down the train, beating a boy on the floor.
They slammed into me as I struggled to stand on top of my seat. I couldn’t tell how many of them there were. I couldn’t even see their faces. They were bent over the teen on the floor punching and kicking at him wildly, their backs to me. But I saw the knife. I saw it pulled out and then disappear into the mele
