THE CASHIER CHUCKLED AT AN ELDERLY WOMAN COUNTING PENNIES FOR BREAD, AND I COMPLETELY LOST IT. SOMETHING INSIDE ME BROKE. AT FORTY-THREE YEARS OF AGE AND SIXTY-SEVEN YEARS OF LIVING, I HAD NEVER FELT SUCH RAGE. SHE LOOKED ABOUT EIGHTY—SMALL, HUNCHED, HANDS TREMBLING AS SHE PAINSTAKINGLY PLACED EACH COIN ON THE COUNTER. Pennies mostly. A few nickels. Her fingers were twisted with arthritis and she kept losing count. "Ma'am, you're twenty-three cents short." The cashier was maybe nineteen. Rolling