They can wait outdoors

The room emptied.

An electric fan, oscillating with a jittery whir, nudging the stale air from one side of the room to the other

rheumy-eyed

Everything in the room had dried up, had long ago lost its color and smell. Time alone had stood still.

"Sometimes it doesn't feel like my own body anymore."

SOme words were exchanged. Then a man wearing a sleeveless t-shirt came out of the room carrying a young child. He walked past me, his face lowered. The child continued to sleep with its head rested on the man's shoulder.

There was no electricity, and the only water available came out of a trickling, rust-caked tap that had to be pumped by hand. And it was frigid, which on hot days, was probably a good thing.

The door opened onto a small front room, religious pictures filled the walls, statuettes filled the one table pushed against the wall.

In the far corner of the room sat a low table.

In one corner of the room sat a low table.

She asked me for money.