I feel a little lightheaded at the mention of Mary’s name again but I know that’s not why I say what I say next. A friend needs my help; it’s that simple. “Okay, let’s go then.”

Except it’s not that simple because as soon as we exit the apartment building, we are greeted by a mob scene. It feels like at least half of New York City has descended upon Avenue A, a lot of them dressed in either yellow or orange. My first thoughts are some sort of flash mob stunt or maybe they’re filming an episode of Black Mirror. But then I see one of the girls in a yellow shirt up close. She’s holding a tray and her T-shirt reads “Feeling Gouda?” above a logo for the restaurant Cheese.

“Excuse me.” I grab her attention. “But what’s going on here?”

“It’s National Cheese Day!” she yells at me over the noise of the crowd and the DJ who’s spinning what I’m pretty sure is a song by the String Cheese Incident.

“Er, okay,” I say. Next to me, I can feel Zoey tense up and I remember her aversion to crowds.

“Brie?” the girl in the T-shirt says to me as she holds out her tray.

“No, thanks,” I respond immediately and then reach out to take Zoey’s hand. I look for a way around the million people who seem to have descended onto our street to score free cheese (I mean, I can’t exactly blame them), until I think I’ve found a way to tunnel us out of here.

We duck under platters of Camembert and Havarti, limbo in between plastic cups of prosecco, and practically have to army crawl our way out from under a group of college guys who have apparently invented a new game that looks a lot like cheese rind Frisbee.

By the time we make it to the subway station, the DJ has switched over to playing the Beatles’ “Getting Better,” only he’s getting on the mic and screaming “cheddar” instead of “better” at every juncture. We’re blocks away from the fair at this point, but can still hear every word.

Zoey is looking over at me accusingly and I can almost hear the anti–New York tirade forming in her head.

“It’s . . . not our best look. I’ll give you that,” I say.

She gives a small laugh, before she turns forlornly to look down the subway stairs.

“Do you want to take a Lyft or something?” I ask, looking back at the throngs behind us, and the farmer’s market ahead. We’d have to walk at least a few blocks to get to someplace a car could actually drive through.

She looks down at our joined hands. “No,” she finally says. “I think I want to try to do this.”