Since “joining” Uptown Updogs, I’ve become a lot of small dogs’ second-favorite person around the neighborhood of Morningside Heights. Twenty-one dogs, to be exact. And it goes hand-in-hand with the Smiling: each of these pup families gets a personalized version of the Smile. That is another mistake people make: giving the same smile to everyone they come across, regardless of circumstances.

There is no such thing as a universal smile.

And while I’ve considered letting Gigi in on my scheme because she is always very nice and attentive to her charges at the park, the risk of blowing up my spot is too big. The dog walks are just a stepping-stone, and I won’t be renewing the URL for Uptown Updogs come college acceptance letters. There’s a master plan in the works—and it is wrapped in Columbia University ivy.

So, yeah, there’s no circumventing that this is a bit of a scam. But what can I say? Dad calls it “the Great Hunger.” That thing that draws everyone around the world here, to America, to New York City. Whether you’re the worker scraping off the gum from a monument, the busy CEO that looks to the monument in question on their way to work every day, or the philanthropist tycoon worth billions and chiseled into marble for all the money they’ve donated to the city. Where you fall between the three, in America, the land of opportunities and blockbusters, depends on how hungry you are for it. How much gusto and hustle you can muster in pursuit of your goals and for that better life for your children.

Haltiwanger Hunger is its own brand of Hunger.

“Ma! I’m home for exactly nineteen minutes!” I shout, hanging the spare leash, ball thrower, and bag of dog treats in the doorway of our apartment.

Our building is a classic Upper West Side institution that also offers the amenities of the modern midtown high-rise building. As the super, my dad is responsible for running the day-to-day of the building, fixing things when they break down, and dealing with the demands of the wealthy tenants. It’s a pretty thankless job, but we get to live in this apartment rent free, even if it is by far the smallest of the bunch. An aboveground basement, really, considering the limited sunlight, leaks, and cold drafts in the winter.

I grab a Pop-Tart from the pantry while stripping off today’s Uptown Updogs shirt, which goes into the laundry pile by the hallway. Luckily, FATE does not require a uniform for after-hours extracurriculars, but in my case, “everyday attire” actually requires more preparation.

“Henri,” Ma mimics, mouth full of pillow, pronouncing it the French Haitian way: Uh-ree.

“You asked me to wake you up. So I’m waking you up.”

Light snoring.

“MA!”

“Just . . . give me, like, mmm’ten.”

I roll my eyes and disappear into the bathroom, still smelling of dog and now running late.