It’s the tiredness that comes with doing nothing.Outside, far below: a parking lot, a blindingsnow-covered field. Inside, in the waiting room:coats on chairs, three cartons of eggnog,a cactus in the corner.Sometime during the day, Meenu Mami microwaves dal and rice,and we all sit eating. She leans back in her chair:her toes protruding from the bottoms of her salwar kameezare yellow and shiny and swollen.Squares of light move slowly across the floor.I drift in and out of sleep.
