Mr. Patel leaned the whole top half of his slender body out of the window of his cab and waved at me with both hands as he called my name a second time. In the five years I’ve known Mr. Patel, ever since he came here from Bombay, I’ve never seen him completely outside of his taxicab. I’ve never even seen him open his driver’s-side door. It’s not like he can’t walk. It is just that he prefers doing the most amazing contortions through his window to actually opening the door and getting out. I remember one day when he slid out his window with the boneless ease of an acrobat to open the back door and then help me wrestle a big box into the backseat. It was only later that I realized, while thinking back on it, that he had done it with one leg on the street and the other still inside the taxi. I’ve heard, though it may not be true, that he is a yoga teacher in his spare time.

“Come on, you two,” Mr. Patel said, gesturing toward the back door of his cab with hands as fluid as those of a temple dancer. “Your humble chariot awaits you.”

I had to smile. “Let’s go,” I said, poking Roger in the side to get him moving. He was sitting there as if hypnotized.

“Maddy,” Roger whispered to me. “Is it safe to ride with this guy again? You didn’t see how he just drove up here. He was steering with his bare feet and his hands behind his head.”

“It’s okay. I think he’s the safest driver in Providence. He even uses turn signals.”

Roger got up. “All right then,” he said.

The turn signals remark, which was true, had made an impression on him. Roger had been back in Rogue Island long enough to become fully aware of another of the idiosyncrasies of our peculiar little state. Almost nobody ever uses their turn signals. There is even a famous cartoon I have seen that shows a Rhode Island used-car salesman with a customer. “And the turn signals on this are just as good as new,” the caption reads. Rhode Islanders roar when they see the cartoon, but out-of-staters just shake their heads in confusion.

Mr. Patel reached his long arm back to shut the door after us, then spun around to face us. “So, so, so,” he said, “it is good to see you so soon again. How is your Bootsie?”

For a few seconds, I’d forgotten about the awful things that had happened or seemed about to happen. But his question brought it all back, and it showed on my face.

“Oh,” he said, “I am sorry. The news is bad?”

“No,” I said quickly. “Bootsie is fine. Dr. Fox is going to keep her for a couple of days.”