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What makes this even more tragic is that over the summer the store had finally found its way, acquiring a form that suited the neighborhood. It had a kind of double or triple life, but so, after all, does the quintessential New Yorker, with a day job as a waiter and a night job as an actor, or an economic existence here and a family somewhere else. Our store had all these different and painfully particular customers, yet somehow we had found a way to reconcile all their various needs. And it was a beautiful thing. Someone once told me that small business is “is putting your faith in the world. Your risk your reputation, your family, your future, and essentially trust that you’ll be rewarded.” For a while in the summer of 2003, that’s how it felt.

COSTA RICA

ONE MORNING A FEW DAYS AFTER WE GET BACK FROM DENVER, Gab and I are sleeping in after a late shift when Edward comes down to the basement, which he rarely does when we’re home. Something he says to Gab in Korean causes her to bolt out of bed.

I sit upright, wondering what the fuss is about. Did we oversleep? Did something happen at the store? If so, why did Edward summon Gab instead of Kay, as he normally would? Maybe Kay had a bad night again; lately she’s been anxious about the cigarette problem and unable to sleep, and then the next day she passes out while sitting at the table or counting money on the kitchen floor. She’s in a state of nervous exhaustion, and her mind isn’t working right—she’s been making very un-Kay-like mistakes with money and scheduling, forgetting things she of all people never forgets. The other day while cooking she almost lit herself on fire, and apparently this wasn’t the only kitchen accident she’s had recently, because her hands are covered with burns. Of course, the more strung out she gets, the more she smokes, and as a result she’s also chronically sick. So when I hear her in the living room coughing after Gab has run upstairs, I’m again pondering what we can do to make Kay take better care of herself.

Then, a few seconds later, a new level of urgency: I hear Gab pleading with her mother to “open your eyes, just say something,” so I run upstairs, where I find Kay on the floor, sitting but slumped over, as if she’s performing a yoga move that involved pressing her forehead to her knees. Gab is sitting next to her, plainly distressed, and Edward is pacing nearby, looking even more worried.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” says Gab. “My father says she took some cold medicine for her cough, and now she can’t wake up. Oma?” She shakes Kay’s shoulder, and nearly knocks her over.

“I’m … fine,” Kay finally mutters, in English, which is a good sign because it shows she’s hearing us talk. She’s slurring, though, and her voice has none of its usual force.

Gab rolls her over and puts a pillow under her head. Squinting at the dimness of an overcast morning, Kay looks to be in searing pain.

“I think we should call an ambulance,” I say.

Gab and Edward look at each other. No one in Gab’s family likes doctors or hospitals, and they always wait till the absolute last second to seek medical help.

“No ambulance,” Kay gasps. “Too expensive.” Which is such a Kay thing to say that for a second I think, Okay, this isn’t such a big deal. Everyone’s going to be fine.

I convince Edward to let me take her to a hospital five minutes away, though, and as Gab and I are driving her there, her condition starts to deteriorate.

“I can’t tell if she’s breathing,” Gab says, holding her mother’s head in her lap in the backseat. “I don’t like this. Why is she losing color?” We race to the emergency room, and at the entrance to the ER I convince a nurse with a stretcher to help us get her out of the car.

“What happened?” he asks us.

I helplessly confess that I don’t know. The nurse then checks Kay’s vital signs and, apparently startled by what he sees, whisks her away from us, plunging her into the depths of the hospital, which Gab and I have always regarded with