I’ve been carrying a stranger’s phone number around in my pocket all week. I doubt that I will ever call it, but it’s presence is comforting—like a foldup map to the subway when your cellphone dies.

The phone number belongs to one Ms. Desiree Jeffers. I met her during a brief foray into Brooklyn, my first real individual endeavor into a new borough. Brooklyn is beautiful, but the part of town that I was in was difficult to navigate. It didn’t have street names on every corner, leaving me constantly wondering if I was as lost as the little blue dot on Google Maps seemed to think that I was.

After a few minutes of wandering confusion, I got to a familiar looking subway station and hoped to board the train. Dismayed, I discovered the signs above the platform didn’t align with what my Google Maps lifeline was telling me.

Desiree Jeffers, whose name I did not yet know, was dispensing gentle locational advice to other confused subway patrons. She was hunched over, wisps of curly grey and black hair like sprung coils peeking out from underneath her fisherman’s cap. She had exactly three visible gold-capped teeth, one on the bottom row and two on the top. She kindly rerouted someone to another platform, and stood placidly waiting for our train to arrive. Since she was near me, I leaned over to confirm that I was going the right direction.

Apologetically, I mentioned it was my inaugural time in Brooklyn (by myself) and that I’d just moved to New York in August and was still learning my way around. She laughed and said, “Oh honey, once you know Brooklyn, you never wanna leave here. I been here 64 years. Brooklyn is my home. You’ll get it. You going to 125^th. It’s the stop after mine. I’ll make sure you get off on time.” Patting my hand warmly, she approached the arriving train, but we were jostled around and didn’t sit next to each other. The subway resumed quietly and quickly—expressly. After thirty minutes on the train, my mind had wandered away from Desiree and onto the many things I had ahead of me on my to do list. But Desiree remembered. She hobbled in my direction from the other side of the rickety train, handed me the receipt, and said, “This is my stop. The next one’s yours. This is my number in case youse ever in Brooklyn again and need directions. Call anytime, I been there 64 years.”

New York is supposed to have that hardened, brusque shell of humanity that values efficiency over human relationships. But for every street vendor that’s yelled at me, there’s been 10 people that stoop down to rub our doggie’s ears on our daily walks. For every bumped shoulder, there’s been 10 apologies and attempts to make it right. I watch strangers pick up someone else’s trash on their commute, I see people chatting with the homeless on the streets, I see people clapping and whistling quietly along to subpar subway performers. I’ve never had so many dinner invitations in my life. I’ve never seen people reach out to their brothers and sisters the same way they do in New York. In some ways, New York is an 8 million person family.

It’s been three weeks since I went to Brooklyn. On days like today where, as far as I know, there’s still an active shooter in San Bernadino, and on days where people are closing their doors to refugees in dire need, and on days where ugliness and hate speech are leading in the polls… On days like today I cling to this little slip of paper with Desiree Jeffers’ phone number on it and am grateful for the reminder that the world is still alright.