The furnishings in the lobby were all a touch ornate but not well-made. At first glance, the place looked both grand and inviting, but the eye quickly picked up the chips in veneer, the worn fabric. Ted thought management must have picked up the furnishings used—and cheap.

However, his only frame of reference was the nursing home where his mother had lived her last few years while he was finishing college. Medicaid had picked up the tab. This place was a palace in comparison, though Ted was sure that hidden behind the pleasant furnishings and the Febreze-scented air was the same loneliness and despair.

The game room had a half-dozen round tables, a smattering of unmatched chairs, and plenty of room for the twenty or more wheelchairs and their occupants. On the long wall facing the players was a big flat-screen television showing a vibrant checkerboard arrangement of black numerals, some highlighted in red, others in yellow. Most of the faces were intent on checking the board against game cards. Along the far wall was a single line of wheelchairs alternating with folding chairs. All of the residents in the wheelchairs were fast asleep, curled forward, heads hanging down. The other seats were taken by aides, who were all busy playing bingo.

“B seven. B seven.” The number caller was a fleshy twentysomething brunette in a baby-blue pantsuit. The outfit made her look about thirty years older. Ted imagined that this was the desired effect.

“Bingo,” a dull voice murmured.

A sense of relief washed across the room. The grueling bout of concentration was over. Another would begin soon, but for the moment the contestants could relax.

The emcee meandered over and checked the old woman’s card. A moment later, in a voice devoid of any celebratory emotion, the girl announced, “We have a winner.”

This was the signal for two young black women in dark grey scrubs to dash about the room collecting nickels and handing out fresh cards to the clients and the aides. The clients were uniformly white, mostly women, and all well-dressed. The aides were all dark skinned, a mix of men and women, and they spoke in accents rooted in developing nations around the globe.

Ted took advantage of this lull in the inaction to sidle up to the emcee. “Excuse me. Could you direct me to my great-aunt? Barbara Miller?”

She stared him down like a professional. In the split second before she spoke, he saw past her boredom. This was not the job she had dreamed of a year ago as she completed her BS in social work, but nevertheless, she was going to take it seriously. Times were tough. Jobs scarce. The country was on a full-out assault upon health-care costs, and labor was an expense. He felt for her. “You don’t recognize your own aunt?” she said.

His sympathy lifted and his vision cleared. A bossy bureaucrat stood before him.