Without much delay a small woman wearing a small apron, stooped low to the ground by arthritis and poor nutrition in her better days, shuffles into the room (her way around the counter was a journey bracketed by cracking bones and gutteral grunts) with a cup and a pot of hot water. She makes her way toward Penny, smiling toothless, her eyes lost dots in the crinkled lattice of puffy eye skin and jowl. In broken english, the waitress coughs "Water, yes. Yes," pleasant, happy to be useful and doing something, not shored up in the network of socialist homes for the aging "other cup? you?"