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She frowns. “Who?”

Does Eloise not know her neighbors? I’ve lived here only five months, and I can tell you everything about the people in my building. Though now that I think of it, maybe that’s because I love asking questions.

“The girl with the dogs?” I say.

“Oh! That’s her name?”

“Yes, and she’s very ill, I think some kind of stomach bug, and I was wondering if you could help, or knew if she has any allergies or …” I trail off. I do not sound like a very close friend, asking these questions.

“Sanvi!” the woman shouts. “Do we still have those supplements for nausea?” She turns back to me. “I’m Kate, by the way. My wife and I sell our own line of supplements. Herbal Pride. Do you work out? We’ve got some great protein powders.”

“Oh, um, no,” I say as a tall Indian woman comes into view.

“This guy is the dog-girl’s boyfriend,” Kate says.

“No, I’m—”

“Oh my god, so cute! I’ve literally never seen her with anyone except that hot chick with the amazing hair.” She hands me a bottle of supplements emblazoned with a rainbow label. “If her stomach is upset, these should help. Did Kate tell you about our line of protein—”

“Thank you so much!” I say, hurrying away before they can try to sell me anything else.

9D has the distinct scent of weed surrounding it. I knock, and even though I can hear the sounds of a video game coming from inside, no one answers. I move on to 9C.

The door opens and a middle-aged, Latina woman answers. “Can I help you?” she asks in heavily accented English.

“Hola,” I say, switching to Spanish. “My friend Eloise lives down the hall and needs help with—”

“On moment please,” the woman replies in Spanish. She’s Colombian—I can tell from her accent—and she disappears into the apartment. I hear her talking to someone in the kitchen in English. Then a white woman with a brunette bob wearing a blue striped blouse and pearls comes to the door.

“Hi,” she says. “Sorry, you must have the wrong apartment, I didn’t order delivery.”

I grimace and plow ahead. “My name is Agustín Martinez, I’m a friend of Eloise’s from 9G.”

“Oh, the girl with the dogs!” the woman cries. “Hi, I’m Gretchen.” There’s a wail from down the hall of, “Mommy, I want TV time!” Gretchen turns and shouts, “Begonia, I told you, finish your smoked salmon and then you can watch more Bluey!” I don’t even know where to begin processing a sentence like that. Gretchen turns back to me. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“Eloise is very sick and—”

But just then, the Colombian woman appears with a baby in her arms.

“Oh, thank you, Paloma,” Gretchen says. “Is it time for little Mansion’s nappy-nap? Yes, it is. Yes, it is. Isn’t that right, Mansion?” She kisses the baby on the forehead as he squirms in Paloma’s arms. I wonder if I need to get my hearing checked or if Gretchen actually named her children Begonia and Mansion. “So, the girl with the dogs is sick? Paloma, can you get this gentleman some Tylenol? Or do we only have children’s? I keep forgetting to put it on the grocery list. Baby brain,” she says to me with an indulgent smile.

I do not want to burden Paloma with any more responsibilities as she wrangles a struggling Mansion.

“It’s fine,” I say, backing away. “Thank you!”

Gretchen closes the door just as the one next to hers, 9B, creaks open. A man in his seventies, with thinning gray hair, wearing a plaid shirt under a sweater vest, pokes his head out.

“You want Miriam,” he says to me.

“Sorry?” I ask.

He jerks his head toward the door opposite him. “Miriam, in 9A. She’s a nurse. She’s the only one who really knows the girl with the dogs.”

“Eloise,” I correct him. He shrugs, then vanishes back into his apartment.

I knock on 9A.

“Coming!” a voice calls from inside, then the door is thrown open. A Black woman wearing pink scrubs and holding a mug of coffee eyes me up and down. “How can I help you, honey?”