I am going to live in a room with a roommate. Hasani is the director of whatever owns that room, like maybe the university. She comes in to tell me some changes that are going to happen. The good news is that the room will be fixed up structurally. There are gaps under and above the door jam and such. The bad news is that some of the furnishings are going. My white kitchen table is going. "Not that one," I say. I need something there to hold my toast and breakfast things; otherwise I'd have to carry it across the room. "Well, someone can help you do that," says Hasani. I am shocked she'd say that. "I can't believe you would say that," I say. I begin to cry in my frustration. She says, embarrassed, "Don't cry. Black people don't cry." I say angrily, "I'm not black!" and continue to cry. She then says they want my piano, an old upright. She doesn't know what to do, because what if a disabled group like Silvi wants it. It's not fair. A boy comes in and puts flowers in a metal vase on a dining table. I grudgingly say thank you to him, after he leaves. I sleep on a couch that could be made into a bed, but choose not to go to that trouble. All the furnishings are a bit ratty.