The bedroom was modest and unadorned. The carpet was the neutral tan common to apartments. Arranged against the walls, in no apparent order, were an ironing board, a smallish dresser with paperwork on it and a television on a stand, with a stack of DVDs underneath. In the middle of the floor was a futon mattress -- bare, no frame, just a pad -- on which Teka Adams lay. There was no other furniture, unless you counted a glass bowl that she had been given to use as a chamber pot.