On a cold evening in early March, my grandpa and I queued outside a nursing home in rural California. He pulled an insulated lunchbox, filled with hot chai and pureed rotis, to his chest and sighed. There are at least eight families in front of us, and if we don’t move fast, my grandma will fall asleep before she’s had dinner. Twenty minutes later, we’ve reached the threshold: a nurse takes ...

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My parents’ pharmacy is a low slung, white brick building on the corner of East and Main. The front door is strung with silver bells;  a jar of red licorice sits by the cash register; automatic scooters line the front of the shop, gleaming like cars at the races. Most days, the pharmacy is a small business owner’s dream. The phone rings off the hook; and with twenty-nine employees, there’s always ...

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