By Tara Judah

It costs too much, everything. Anna answers her apartment door to a man, his hand trembling, as he clutches a cup and a religious image. He asks for money; his child is sick and needs medicine. Anna is on the phone; she is agitated, distracted and, after rummaging in the fridge, brings him meat and fresh bread. The man is disappointed, “I’d prefer money,” he tells her. “I’d also prefer money, but I don’t have it,” she spits back, and closes the door.