I walk through the pasty government-issue fluorescent light and bureaucratic cinderblock waiting room, ushered into the inner sanctum of welfare benefits review. I feel oddly privileged, striding past rows of glum, tired, bored and frustrated faces; how have I been picked out so quickly, after just 15 minutes of sitting?

Getting inside doesn't mean you'll get approved, but, like waiting in a doctor's lobby, sheer movement into a different room gives one hope.  Progress.

My benefits counselor, a tall, stocky, healthfully heavyset Indian man, speaks like a machine gun.  "Fifty-five," he says brusquely as he waves his arm at a numbered booth in a long row of numbered booths.  I'm still non-caffeinated so it takes me a moment to realize what "55" means, then I take my seat across from him.  It looks (and feels) like I'm in prison.

The caseworker, whom I'll call Chakim, is vigorous and businesslike.  "ID?  Social Security card?"

I quickly hand him everything: my driver’s license, threadbare Social Security card with my awkward childhood signature, and my passport complete with its January 2011 stamp from India (I hope he notices).

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