No one here speaks my language: not the cashier, not the neighbor, not even the rain. Yet every night, at the stroke of two, the dark television in the corner of the room flickers to life for two minutes only. Through the static, a teapot simmers, the scent of fresh bread drifts in, and a woman pours tea, saying, “May it nourish your soul.” I have two minutes to believe that I am warm, and that all is well. Then the image fractures, and the city turns cold and mute once more. Here, the only thing that needs no translation is that static in the mother tongue...