“Don’t ask what’s in the bag,” she told me as I carried the heaters back to the car. “When I know you better, I’ll tell you.”

Only once did Ms. Bailey receive a donation that was actually a donation-that is, something for free. At one grocery store, she got some canned food without having to exchange any beer or liquor.

By the time we finished, we were on the far southern edge of the city. We hit traffic on the drive back to Robert Taylor, which gave me the opportunity to pepper Ms. Bailey with questions.

“When did you start doing this?” I asked.

Ms. Bailey told me that she had grown up in public housing herself. Back then, charities, churches, city agencies, and individual volunteers all helped out in the projects. “But the volunteers don’t come around anymore,” she said wistfully. “Have you seen any of those nice white people since you’ve been around? I didn’t think so. Nobody gives us money, nobody runs programs. Not a lot of people are doing the free-food thing anymore. Even the churches really don’t do what they did in the past.”

“But I don’t understand why the people we saw today want to give you things. I mean, how did you get to know them?”

“Well, first of all, most of them grew up in Robert Taylor or they have family in the projects. Lots of middle-class people don’t like to talk about it, but they came from the projects. It’s easy to forget where you came from. But I try and remind these people that they were once like us. And a few times a year, they do the right thing.”

“So why give them beer and liquor?” I asked. “If it’s a donation, it should be for free, no?”

“Well, things ain’t always that simple,” Ms. Bailey said. She brought up the incident I’d seen some months back, when the woman named Boo-Boo wanted to kill the Middle Eastern shopkeeper who’d slept with her teenage daughter. “That’s what a lot of women have to do around here to get some free food,” she said. “I don’t want to see it come to that. So if I have to give away a few bottles of gin, that’s fine with me.”

Back at her office, Ms. Bailey organized the winter gear and prepared large baskets filled with canned food and meat. Word spread quickly, and families from her building soon began to drop by. Some were shy, others excited. But everyone seemed happy, and I watched as children smiled when they tried on a new coat or a warm sweater.

I noticed that some people received food but no clothing. Others got a jacket but no food. And some people just stood around until Ms. Bailey told them, “We don’t have anything for you today.” She said this even though the food baskets and clothing were in plain view, so I didn’t know why she was withholding the gifts from them. Did she play favorites with some families?

One day Clarisse, the prostitute, walked into Ms. Bailey’s office. There were several women already in front of her. Ms. Bailey’s assistant, Catrina, was writing their names and noting exactly what each of them received.

“You got something for me today?” Clarisse asked, a lilt in her voice. Then her eyes landed on me briefly, but I didn’t seem to register. She smelled like liquor; her blouse was undone so that one of her breasts was nearly popping out. Despite the cold weather, Clarisse was wearing a black miniskirt and sliding around perilously on high heels. Her face looked vacant, and her mouth was frothy. I had never seen her in this condition before. She had told me herself that she didn’t do drugs.

“You’re messed up,” Catrina said, peering over her thick glasses. “You need to shower.”

Ms. Bailey was in the next room, speaking with a tenant. “Ms. Bailey, look who’s here!” Catrina called out. “Ms. Bailey, you need to tell her to get out of the office!” Catrina turned back to Clarisse and shot her a disapproving look.

Ms. Bailey came out and told Catrina to calm down. Then she motioned for Clarisse to come inside. As she closed the door, she rolled her eyes at me and sighed. I couldn’t make out the whole conversation-it was unclear, in fact, if Clarisse was talking at all- but some of Ms. Bailey’s proclamations were plainly audible.

“Get yourself clean or you ain’t getting nothing!… Don’t embarrass yourself, coming in here high on that shit!…You call yourself a mother? You ain’t no mother. You could be one, if you stopped smoking that junk!”

The door opened, and Clarisse stumbled out, tears in her eyes. She dropped her purse and then, as she stopped to pick it up, tripped and fell, ramming into the pile of donation baskets. As she tried getting up, Clarisse vomited, some of it landing on the baskets.

Catrina and I jumped over to help her. Both of us slipped on the vomit. A strong wind blew in from outside, and the smell filled the room. Clarisse resisted our help, but she couldn’t manage to get up by herself. Her pretty face had turned pale and pasty.

“Grab her and get her out of here!” Catrina yelled. She had to say this two more times before I realized that she was talking to me. “Sudhir! Grab her and take her home. Now!”

I tried being delicate with Clarisse. She was falling out of her clothes, and I didn’t quite know how to touch her. She began throwing up again, and this time it landed on my arm.

“Sudhir!” Catrina yelled.

Clarisse was on all fours by now. She was drooling and heaving, but nothing came out. This time I wrapped my arms around her stomach and yanked her up. I figured I’d better get her out of the office even if I had to drag her.

“That bitch don’t want me to feed my babies,” Clarisse moaned. “I need food to feed my babies!” She started looking around frantically-for her purse, I realized.

“Clarisse, just a few more feet,” I said. “I’ll get your bag, don’t worry. But let’s get you out of the office.”

“My bag!” she wailed. “My bag, I need my bag!”

She started kicking and flailing, trying to make her way back inside the office. With one last effort, I heaved her upright, causing us both to stumble and slam against the gallery’s chain-link fencing. She sank back to the floor. I hoped I hadn’t hurt her, but I couldn’t tell.

As I turned to retrieve her purse, I saw Ms. Bailey, standing in the doorway. She held the purse in her hands.

“Is this what she wants?” Ms. Bailey asked. “Is it?!” I nodded. “Look inside. You want to help this lady, then look and see why she wants her bag.”

I shook my head, staring at the floor.

“Look!” Ms. Bailey snapped at me. She strode over and held the bag up to my face. I saw a few condoms, some lipsticks, pictures of her daughters, and a few bags of either heroin or cocaine.

“Have to have that fix, don’t you, baby?” Ms. Bailey asked Clarisse, sneering. We all stood there for what felt like an hour but was probably only a few seconds. Catrina tried to interrupt, but Ms. Bailey waved her off.

“Go ahead, Sudhir, take her home,” Ms. Bailey said. She bent over to stare down at Clarisse. “If I see your babies coming over and telling me that they ain’t eaten no food in three days, I’m taking them away. You hear?”

Ms. Bailey turned and left. Catrina, with a disinterested look, handed me some paper towels. I bent down to wipe the vomit and tears from Clarisse’s face. She didn’t resist this time when I helped her up.

I walked Clarisse upstairs to her apartment and led her to the couch. The apartment was dark, and I figured it would be best to let her sleep. In a back room, her two daughters were sitting on a queen-size bed. They looked to be about two and four years old and were watching the TV intently. I closed the door to their room and put a glass of water on the table next to Clarisse. The scene was a study in contrasts. The apartment was neat and cozy, with wall hangings and framed pictures throughout, some of Jesus Christ and some of family members. It smelled as if it had just been cleaned. And then there was Clarisse on the couch, breathing heavily, eyelids drooping, a total mess.