Time for a OneWord story. Sixty seconds, one word. That's cross:
His pace is brisk, a New York walk, purposeful in its efficiency. Arms snug at his sides – better to reduce drag, eliminate pedestrian collisions – he looks ahead five feet, scanning the pavement for pitfalls, anything that could slow him down. At the intersections, when he’s missed the light and the masses huddle around him, he crosses himself. Father, Son, Holy Ghost, right before the light turns and he steps off the curb. The first to do so, ahead of the mass of flesh, picking up velocity.