The Elders

The brick building on the Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, block was in desperate need of repairs. The front steps crumbled like silken tofu. A spider web of broken glass was the front door. The basement was packed with half-working, coin-operated washers and dryers. But inside, the lobby shone. The chocolate brown mailboxes were filled with boxed treats for the kids, letters from faraway loved ones, and sometimes Korean beauty products if there was a clearance sale at Pearl River Mart.

On a normal day, 86th Street bustled with yellow school buses, the crackle of kids chattering, a Chinese woman squawking into her cell phone, and people crossing the street, waving off the angry honks of drivers with a flick of a wrist or a finger.

But in the face-melting humidity of late July, Elder Yen walked by the cheap shoe stores, Yaya Tea, and check-cashing shops that were dark and hollow in the daytime. In a blue shirt so old it was practically white, Yen moved stiffly toward her apartment building with two red plastic