Mrs. Patterson was awake when Maya returned to the hotel room.
The television was on – a game show, same as always. The volume was low. The old woman sat propped against two pillows, her hands folded over the blanket.
"She called me," Mrs. Patterson said. "Irene. She's on the bus already. She'll be here by morning."
Maya sat on the edge of the other bed. "That's good."
"I haven't seen her in three years."
"Maybe that's a good thing too."
Mrs. Patterson didn't respond. She stared at the television, but her eyes weren't following the screen.
Maya pulled off her shoes. "Do you want dinner? There's a diner across the street."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat."
"I need to go home." The old woman's voice cracked. Not with tears. With exhaustion. "I want to sleep in my own bed. I want to hear the game shows from next door. I want –" She stopped.
Maya waited.
Mrs. Patterson closed her eyes. "Never mind."
---
Maya ordered food from the diner. Two burgers, two orders of fries, a side of coleslaw. She ate hers sitting on the floor with her back against the bed. Mrs. Patterson picked at her fries. Ate maybe five of them.
At 9 PM, Maya helped her to the bathroom. Then back to bed.
"You don't have to stay," Mrs. Patterson said.
"I'm staying."
"You have your own life."
"My life is a room with a mattress on the floor and a tomato garden on the roof. It can wait."
Mrs. Patterson laughed. It was a small sound, barely there. "You sound like my Henry. He used to say things like that."
"What things?"
"'The world can wait.' Then he'd sit in his chair and read the newspaper for two hours."
Maya smiled. "He sounds like he was a good man."
"He was a pain in the ass. But yes." Mrs. Patterson reached for Maya's hand. "Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know."
---
Maya slept in the other bed. Clothes on. Shoes off. The curtains were thin. Streetlight painted orange rectangles on the ceiling.
She didn't dream.
---
The next morning, Irene arrived at 8:15.
Maya saw her through the lobby window. A woman in her late sixties, short grey hair, a canvas bag over her shoulder. She walked with a slight limp but didn't use a cane.
Maya opened the door. "Irene?"
"That's me. You're Maya."
"Yes."
Irene looked her up and down. Then she nodded, as if she'd passed some kind of test. "Where is she?"
"Second floor. Room 204."
Irene walked past her without another word. Maya followed.
In the room, Mrs. Patterson was sitting up. She'd brushed her hair. Put on lipstick. The game show was on, volume still low.
The two sisters looked at each other.
"Eleanor," Irene said.
"Irene."
"You look like hell."
"You look old."
Irene set down her bag and sat on the edge of the bed. She took her sister's hand. Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
Maya stepped into the hallway and closed the door.
---
She waited in the lobby for twenty minutes.
Then Irene came down. Her eyes were red, but her face was composed.
"She needs a place to stay until Monday," Irene said. "The facility in Crown Heights."
"I know. I called them."
"I'll handle it from here. You've done enough."
Maya nodded. "The hotel is paid through tonight. If you need more time –"
"I have money. Don't worry."
They stood in the lobby. A man in a business suit walked past, pulling a rolling suitcase.
"You're a good neighbor," Irene said. "Not everyone would do what you did."
"I didn't do much."
"You stayed. That's the part that matters."
Maya looked at the floor. The carpet was beige and stained.
"Can I visit her?" Maya asked. "After she goes to the facility?"
Irene's face softened. "I think she'd like that."
---
Maya walked back to her building.
The morning was warm. The sky was clear. A man was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the bodega. The newspaper stand on the corner was open. The headline was about a fire somewhere in Queens.
She climbed the stairs to her floor. Her room was exactly as she'd left it – mattress, desk, clothes on the folding chair. The black sketchbook was still in the drawer.
She pulled it out and opened to the drawing of her garden. Leo's drawing. She looked at it differently now. Not as a stranger's work. As a man who'd lost his mother, lost his apartment, lived in a basement, and still found time to draw tomatoes.
She closed the sketchbook and put it back.
Then she went to Mrs. Patterson's apartment to get the tenant list.
---
The list was still on the kitchen table. Mr. Chen had added his name to the Help column. So had Marco from 2B. Two others she didn't recognize.
She sat down and read through the names again.
Unit 1A: Mr. Delgado, 72, uses a cane.
Unit 2B: Marco, 29, works nights.
Unit 3A: Mrs. Patterson, 81, heart condition.
Unit 3C: The Kims, both employed, keep to themselves.
Unit 4C: Maya, 26, artist.
Unit 5B: Jasmine, 24, night shift nurse.
Unit 6A: The Parkers, retired, spend winters in Florida.
Unit 6B: Empty.
Twelve people. Eight units. One empty.
She added a new column: Will fight?
Next to Mrs. Patterson's name, she wrote Yes.
Next to her own: Yes.
Next to Mr. Chen: Yes.
Next to Marco: Maybe.
Everyone else: blank.
She looked at the blanks. Six people. Some of them she'd never spoken to. Some she'd only seen in the hallway.
She picked up her phone and called Mr. Chen.
"I need help," she said. "I need to talk to everyone in the building."
"Door to door?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Today."
He was quiet for a second. Then he said, "I'll start on the first floor. You take the third."
---
They worked through the afternoon.
Maya knocked on every door. Some people opened. Some didn't. Some listened. Some closed the door in her face.
The Kims in 3C said they weren't interested. "We're looking at apartments in New Jersey," the wife said. "We're leaving either way."
Jasmine in 5B said she'd come to the meeting. "I work nights, but I can be there."
The Parkers in 6A weren't home. Maya left a note under their door.
Mr. Delgado in 1A opened his door slowly. He leaned on his cane. His apartment smelled of menthol and old newspapers.
"I heard about Mrs. Patterson," he said. "Is she okay?"
"She'll be fine. She's going to a facility on Monday."
He nodded. "She's a good woman. Helped me when my wife passed. Brought me soup every day for a month."
"You can help her back," Maya said. "Come to the tenant meeting. Stand with us."
Mr. Delgado looked at the floor. Then he looked at her. "What time?"
"Tuesday. 7 PM. Mrs. Patterson's apartment."
"I'll be there."
She wrote his name in the Will fight? column.
---
At 6 PM, she went back to her room.
Her phone buzzed. Leo.
How was door-to-door?
Exhausting. Three maybes. One yes. Two no. Two not home.
That's four no responses.
Math isn't your strong suit, is it?
He sent back: Neither is drawing bridge cables.
She almost laughed.
The legal aid lawyer, she typed. Did she confirm?
Yes. Tuesday. 7 PM. She'll bring pamphlets.
You're coming too?
If you want me there.
She looked at the screen for a long time.
I want, she typed.
Then she put the phone down and lay on the mattress.
The ceiling crack looked like a river. She followed it with her eyes until her vision blurred.
---
At 8 PM, she went to the roof.
The garden was still there. The new stakes held the tomatoes straight. The basil had stopped wilting. Maybe it would recover. Maybe not.
She watered each plant slowly. The soil drank. The water beaded on the leaves.
She sat on the milk crate and looked at the building across the alley. Third floor. Empty. But she knew Leo was down there. In the basement. In the boiler room. Drawing by a desk lamp.
She pulled out her phone.
Can you see me?
His response came fast: From the basement? No. No windows, remember.
I remember.
But I can hear syou. The water tank echoes when you turn the spigot.
She looked at the water tank. The painted eye stared back.
That's creepy, she typed.
I told you. Not a creep.
She put the phone away and stayed on the roof until the sky turned black.
Then she went down.