3
Tony
‘Who are you?’ asked the doctor.
Tony understood what the question implied. An Asian man in a torn bellhop uniform and an elderly white woman with a head wound walked into a hospital. It sounded like the beginning of a bad joke.
‘I’m Miss Abadi’s doorman,’ said Tony. ‘Is she OK?’
‘She’s doing fine. Nothing’s broken, but we’re not ruling out a concussion yet.’ The doctor spoke slowly, enunciating each word as though he were speaking to a toddler. Tony was used to this kind of stilted English. He’d heard it before from the residents in his building, Tammy’s teachers, recruiters from technology companies. Some did it as a polite gesture or out of self-ordained compassion. Many couldn’t hide their impatience. A few were brazenly condescending. They all did it because they assumed
