The answer comes to me suddenly. There is a place where we can go—at least for a few nights. We can make things easier for Jorge and Amy. They shouldn’t have to make a tough decision—I can make it for them. They’ve already done enough.

I take my phone out of my pocket. In the back of my mind, I can hear our old neighbor’s words: I’ve never regretted asking for help when I needed it. I scroll through my contacts quickly, and when I find the right number, I press the phone hard against my ear.

“Heya,” she answers. “Good to know you still remember who I am.”

“Kimmie,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I haven’t texted you back these past few days. I’ve—”

“You’ve been busy,” Kimmie says. “You don’t have to explain.”

Even though I’ve never felt more terrified in my life, a small light comes on inside of me—a light that only Kimmie can turn on.

“Matt, what’s going on?” she asks.

“I’m just…” For a second, I can’t find the right words. But then I swallow hard and say, “Kimmie, I need your help.”

25

I’VE ONLY MET KIMMIE’S PARENTS A FEW times, but they welcome me and Sophie into their home as if we were their long-lost children.

Mr. Reid, a tall man with square glasses and a tucked-in shirt that never seems to move an inch out of place, apologizes to us the second we walk into the apartment for not being able to offer us anything better than their pullout couch. While I wave him away, saying that a couch to sleep on is more than enough, Mrs. Reid helps Sophie take her backpack off.

“You kids must be tired,” she says. She has a low, gentle voice, and the kindest smile I’ve come across in I don’t know how long. “Do you want to take a nap before dinner, or do you want to eat now?”

“Let’s eat now,” Kimmie says from behind me. “I’m starving.”

Even though Kimmie has already spoken, Mrs. Reid still waits to hear my response. “Sophie and I are okay with eating now if you are.”

We sit down at the dinner table, and Mr. Reid says grace before we eat. Their Harlem apartment is small—even smaller than my family’s old place—but it’s beautifully decorated. There isn’t a single thing that looks out of place—from the plates on the table, to the thin curtains at the window, to the beautiful paintings on the wall, I can tell everything was carefully selected, unlike my parents’ apartment, where a million different types of furniture and decorations were forced to coexist.