She rang the bell to Mr. Hernández’s apartment. No one answered. She checked again the address on the form they had sent her. 4L. She rang it again, and when the lobby door buzzed, she ran into the building. The elevator had music. She recognized the melody and rocked her body to distract herself from the fact that she needed to go to the bathroom. Elevators motivated her bladder. She saw her reflection in the corner mirrors placed strategically to see muggers. She noticed how all the floors were freshly waxed. They smelled citrusy.

—So this is the Bronx, she said. Why would anyone be scared of this? She knocked on the door decorated with a dried flower wreath. A woman, hair set in curls all over her head, a starched bata barely covering her knees, opened the door.

—Hola, señora. Adelante, she said.

—Soy Esperanza.

—Good, because we need a lot of hope around here. Este viejo thinks he gonna die every time he hear the phone ring. As if God calls and warns folks of such a thing.

—Where can I put my things? Esperanza asked, searching for the bathroom, noting how different it was from her apartment, which was crowded with furniture and family. The Hernández apartment was a spacious two-bedroom. The windows overlooked Van Cortlandt Park. She had heard many stories about the park with the public swimming pool. There was plenty of room for Mr. Hernández to move around in his wheelchair. In the living room, there was a love seat with a cotton sheet draped on the cushions, a round glass end table, a dark wood dining table pressed against the window near the kitchen. A small stand with a thirteen-inch television, and a record player and a shelf filled with record albums. One long bookshelf occupied with books and the Encyclopaedia Britannica, which Esperanza recognized from the infomercials. No figurines or flowers. No pantry filled with dishes. No photographs, except for two frames hanging on the wall over the sofa, of Mr. and Mrs. Hernández, the other of their belated parrot, Cuca.

—Ven, ven, the woman said, walking Esperanza around, showing her the bathroom, the bedroom where Mr. Hernández slept and the twin bed Esperanza would sleep on. —Don’t mind the mess. I hope you’re not one of those stuffy workers who don’t like to clean. I had this lady come here and she refused to cook or anything. She fed my husband his farina in the morning and his sopita at night, and never, not once, did she cook for me. Not once did she scrub the stove. And she was a young woman con twice the energía I had and she didn’t help me around here. Are you gonna give me a hard time too?

—It says here Mr. Hernández doesn’t have a wife, Esperanza reminded the lady. If Esperanza had wanted to be a trabajadora she would’ve stayed in Dominican Republic.

—I’m his mistress, she said, and gave Esperanza a devilish grin. She was obviously the woman in the picture. Thirty years might have passed, but she wore the same face.