She lowered the phone. “I’m sorry, so sorry. These boys, they stole a car and drove it all over, the police chasing them right past the school and where the children play. I got the neighborhood alert about it on my phone while I was walking Bibi. But when I got home, my garage door was bent like this”—she held a flat hand angled sharply over the phone—“and the car was still right there in my driveway. The policeman said the kids crashed the car and ran away. ‘Joyriding’ ”—she made one-handed air quotes—“but they know the kids and it’s not the first time, so they are looking for them, and I could go into my house, but with my garage door like that, how do I know—” She paused again, listening to the phone, and then spoke another run of that beautiful language into it, becoming more emphatic near the end. She repeated one word that sounded like hasana three times before holding the phone out to me. “My husband.”

I took it and a male voice with a slight British accent said, “I apologize for the inconvenience. I am on my way from work, but it may be thirty minutes before I arrive. May I ask a favor of you? If you will wait, I will pick up Rahmia there.”

Rahmia lifted Bibi and smoothed the little dog’s ears back. The edges of her headscarf fell forward, obscuring her face, but her hands trembled slightly.

“Of course,” I said. “It’s no trouble at all.”

“You are very kind. Rahmia does not want to be alone right now. I will be there promptly, and I greatly appreciate your generosity.”

I handed the phone back to Rahmia. She spoke softly into it and hung up, rolling her eyes at me. “My husband is such a worrier. But it’s just me at home until school lets out. And the police, they say my house is safe, but how do I know?”

Rising to my feet, I asked, “Would you like some tea?” The electric kettle gleamed on the counter, because I’d unpacked and put away all the kitchen items, but then I remembered I hadn’t bought any tea. Texas was so hot.

Rahmia said, “That would be very nice, but I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“No trouble at all.” I opened the pantry, hoping for a miracle. And there, on the nearly empty shelves, was a small cardboard box with spices, matches, toothpicks, and mercifully a few random tea bags.

“I only have green tea,” I said apologetically.

Rahmia smiled at me. “You are so kind.” Her hands kept moving, ruffling Bibi’s fur, then smoothing it back down.