The morning is black as I walk downhill from my condo to the bus stop. A group of itinerant workers, mainly Indian, have been sleeping on the sidewalk. They patiently await daylight to continue their painting of all condos within our development. I hear hushed voices, and see the flash of a match as morning cigarettes are lit. A thin plastic sheet is all that has separated them from their concrete mattress. Their situations are startling compared to mine: I sleep in a king-size bed made up of sheets with thread counts in the hundreds. I'm not sure what a thread count is, but my wife assures me their silk-like feel will guarantee nightly bliss. As I proceed, I replay my teaching duties that conspired to keep me awake: blogging, booking computer labs, peer editing, book checks, parental consent forms, sharing sessions and administrivia. I am about to cross the street and catch my bus when one final sound grabs my attention, a low, sepulchral laugh. One of the workers has lit a cigarette and I identify him by the glowing tip of his cigarette, a fine laser beam piercing the darkness. At that instant I am struck by the strangest question: I wonder who got the better night's sleep?
