Telling the truth about it would not make me less deserving of a bed.

The emergency-contact space remained blank until I asked whether I could put Elena’s office number there.

“With permission, yes,” the worker said.

We called to confirm it.

My bed was forty-two.

The room held narrow beds and the sounds of other people trying to rest.

A child cried while his mother searched for a toy.

Somebody coughed behind a curtain.