“Yes,” she says, appearing at my side, her arms crossed over her middle. “They’re the folks who clean the rooms. Or the bellhops who bring up people’s bags. When I was a child, my mother would always task me with finding out the name of the person who was responsible for cleaning our hotel room. Before we checked out, she’d leave a tip, and I’d leave a note, usually consisting of a terribly drawn picture and a thank-you scrawled across the page. ‘We can’t forget the people who work in the shadows,’ she would say. She cleaned houses herself when she first came to the U.S., so I think she knew how important it was to be acknowledged, and she certainly knew the value of an extra few dollars in her pocket.”

“Then you started taking pictures of these people on your own trips?”

“Yeah. Whenever I visit a new place, I take tons of pictures. Of beaches. Of beautiful sunsets. Or mountain ranges. Or even a fantastic meal. All in an effort to capture my experience. One day, I realized what was missing: the people who make the bed or bring you towels or do a million other tasks we take for granted. So I started capturing them. With their permission, of course.” She shrugs again. “Just something I do.”

It’s a tic of hers, I now realize. Whatever follows that shrug is important, but she doesn’t want to let you in on that fact. I also realize something else: Solange may be unsure where her future will lead her, but being a good person is her moral compass; that’s a level of success some people never reach. “It’s incredibly considerate, and it speaks volumes about you.”

“I’m a messy bitch sometimes, so don’t get too carried away,” she says, her tone playful again.

“Definitely noted,” I say, wanting to lighten the mood as much as she apparently does. “You know, it’s not the eyes that are the windows to your soul, it’s the stomach. Let’s see the kitchen next.”

She gives me a shaky laugh as she nods her assent. “Sounds good.”

I make small talk as I follow her down the hall. “Miracle Whip?”

“Gross,” she says over her shoulder.

“Mustard?”

“Only on a soft pretzel or a Cubano.”

“Ketchup?”

“Of course. It’s a base.”

“What the hell for?”

“Mayo, ketchup, and garlic. Whip ’em together and you have the best dip for yuca fries or tostones.”

“Gross.”

She stops short and stares at me over her shoulder. “I will kick you out of this apartment for that kind of blasphemy.”

“Delicious, then,” I say, rubbing my stomach.

We reach the kitchen, and my gaze immediately homes in on the dozen or so small appliances that sit side by side in the compact space. “Think there’s enough on that counter?”

“Hush,” she says, grinning.

“Why all the coffee gadgets?”