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Yeah. I tend to forget to buy things for my own needs. And I haven’t been sick in ages. But Miriam has stuff.

“My neighbor …” I croak.

My lips feel cracked, my tongue swollen. I blink, my eyelids heavy. My bed has never felt so soft or so comfortable. I see Agustín’s face, creased with concern next to mine. His coffee-colored eyes are like deep pools, the softest, warmest brown. I bet I smell terrible.

“Your neighbor can help?” he asks.

I manage a nod before my eyes close and I drift into unconsciousness.

12Agustín

I’m really glad I texted Rachel.

Eloise has some kind of awful stomach virus, I’d guess. I’ve taken care of the Minions during all sorts of illnesses, so I’ve seen this type of thing before. I spring into action. First, I wet a hand towel with cool water and lay it over her forehead. I need to get her fever down, and some water into her.

I’ll have to find this neighbor. I don’t know if Eloise has any health conditions or allergies, but she needs medicine.

I send a text to Rachel that Eloise is very sick, but not to worry, I’m going to help. I ask her about medications or allergies and promise to keep her updated. Then I head out into the living room. Eloise’s apartment is enormous. I wonder again how she affords it. The corner windows look out over Central Park, and the interior is beautifully designed, with an eclectic mix of furniture, lots of bookshelves, and plants everywhere. It feels almost like a mix between an eccentric aunt’s parlor and a conservatory. There’s a giant dog poop on the rug—I grab it with a piece of toilet paper and flush it, before laying a pee pad I found under the sink over the stain. There are a few puddles of pee, and I cover those with pads too. I’ll clean more thoroughly when I’ve gotten Eloise taken care of. At least for now, none of the dogs will step in them.

I leave Eloise’s apartment door on the latch and step out into the hall. She didn’t specify which neighbor. I start with 9F. Old French music comes muted through the door, strains of “Non, je ne regrette rien.” I knock. I hear a shuffling sound, then the door creaks open. A woman in her late sixties, with fantastically coiffed hair and red lipstick, peers up at me. She’s elegantly dressed in a long-sleeved black blouse, a knee-length black skirt, and black heels.

“Can I help you?” she asks in a French accent.

“Hi, my name is Agustín Martinez, I’m a friend of Eloise’s,” I begin.

The woman wrinkles her nose. “Who?”

“Um, the woman who lives in 9G.”

“Ah, ze girl with ze dogs.”

“Yeah, that’s her,” I say. “She’s really sick and said you could help.”

“Me?” the woman says, her eyes widening in surprise. “I am not sure what I can do. Sick how, you mean?”

“Pretty much every way,” I admit. “Fever, nausea, vomiting …”

The woman shudders delicately. “I do not need details, merci.” She glances over my shoulder at Eloise’s door. “She asks for my help? One moment please.”

She shuts the door and then returns a few seconds later, handing me a small mason jar filled with teabags. “These are a special mix. I make them myself. They will settle the stomach.”

“Oh,” I say. Not exactly what I was looking for, but it’s pretty cool that French Lady makes her own tea. Also, maybe I’ve got the wrong neighbor. “Well, thank you.”

“Her name is Eloise, you say?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“You tell her Madame Boularès wishes her well.”

“I’ll do that,” I say, as the door shuts in my face.

I try the next door, 9E. A sporty blonde with impressive biceps wearing yoga pants and a sports bra answers.

“Hi,” I say. “My name is Agustín Martinez—”

“Sorry, not interested,” she says, starting to close the door.

“Wait, no, I’m a friend of Eloise,” I say.