The sign read, “Please help me feed my three children.” It was made of a discarded side of a cardboard box, well-used and bent in the middle. The black ink was bold and dark, the P lease underlined. The whole sentence should have been underscored and punctuated. By her unspoken English and pleading gestures, I knew that someone else had written the sign for her. She wore her misfortune like a grieving widow, veiled in sadness and complexity. She, too, was deserving of something, if not...