I did as she bade me, removing my shoes before entering the house and then marching into the bathroom. “Soap.” She pointed. “Shampoo. Leave your clothes here. I’ll wash.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I mumbled, but she only shook her head.

“I’ll get you a robe to wear.”

I can hardly explain how grateful I was but also how ashamed. When I emerged at last it was wearing the thick terry-cloth bathrobe I had found hanging from the inside of the door. The smell that came from the kitchen was savory and thick. Mrs. ­Takahashi entered the room in the same moment, pointing to the little kitchen table at which I had, months before, in the first blush of that now-gone summer, listened to Mrs. ­Wilson stammer out her questions about the whereabouts of Mrs. ­Takahashi’s son and at which I now sat as Mrs. Takahashi went to the stove and opened it and brought out a baking dish and a moment later delivered a steaming hot plate of chicken enchiladas, their curves bubbling with cheese, rice and refried beans on the side.

“You eat,” she said simply. “You’ll feel better then.”

“I’m sorry,” I said through my tears. “Thank you so much.”

“John,” she said.

I paused mid-bite to look at her, her dark eyes staring back at my own, fixing me in their gaze.

“You’ll be okay,” she said. “You will.”

I mumbled something in the affirmative.

After a time she nodded. “I’m going to check the laundry,” she said. “There’s more in the pan on the stove.”

“It’s so good,” I said, smiling now, smiling and crying, a kind of delirium possessing me so that I did not know if I was ecstatic or on the verge of death itself.

“My husband,” she said. “He’s obsessed with Mexican food. It’s all we ever eat anymore.”

I CLEANED THAT PLATE and refilled it and cleaned it again until the enchilada pan was empty. When I was done I sat back in the kitchen chair, my hands in my lap, the only sounds those of the road outside somewhere beyond the shaded window and the ticking of a clock.