WHEN SHE FINISHED HER SHIFT ON MOST DAYS, SHE found something small waiting among her belongings—two bananas, a pack of gum, a head of lettuce, a small box of chocolates. It was hard to tell what the logic of each selection was, or if there was any at all. Depending on her mood, each item seemed entirely thoughtful or utterly meaningless. She looked forward to seeing what had been placed in her bin, and on the days when she didn’t receive anything, she went home sullenly disappointed, as if that was the inevitable end to a streak of good fortune. But then the next day, she would find something again—a package of ramen, a small container of doenjang, the most exquisite Korean pear, perfectly shaped and freckled—and the world seemed to open up a little once more, a crack of light seeping into darkness.

She knew it was Mr. Kim. He had seen her that day, after she had rung up the father and daughter who reminded her so much of her own, after she had run to the bathroom and emerged with her face red and swollen. He had given her that look, silently acknowledging her pain, and later that day, she had discovered the fruit, that beautiful green apple, and the ramen in her bin. Since then it had been clear in their quiet and polite exchanges that he wanted to help her somehow, that somehow in her loneliness, her despair, he recognized something. Maybe a bit of himself.

A part of her wanted to reject everything, to confront him and ask him politely to not leave her anything anymore. She didn’t need or want any sympathy. And it confused her. What was the point of these gestures that couldn’t lead anywhere for her?

At the same time, the idea of not receiving the little gifts, which often served as the highlight of her entire day, terrified her. Maybe it was the tiniest of things, at times, on a consistent basis, that kept us alive, and if she could not create such kindnesses for herself, couldn’t she allow someone else to do so for her?

After a couple weeks of the monotony, the accretive familiarity of the cash and the coins in her hand, the dull flashes of courtesy between her and the customers, punctuated only by the gifts she received at the end of most days, Mario disappeared.

On a crisp autumn day, Mina approached her register, where a teenager, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old, was working with Mr. Kim on the front-of-store tasks that Mario usually did on his own. As soon as Mr. Kim noticed Mina, he tried to smile and walked away to the back of the store. She said hello, acting as natural as possible with the new employee who introduced himself as Daniel.

Where was Mario? Perhaps he had the day off, which, for whatever reason, seemed odd to her. He had quietly guided her through many of her more difficult days as a cashier. Something about the whole scene seemed askew. But she reminded herself that he could be sick or on vacation. Who knew?

Daniel learned quickly, had certainly worked in a supermarket or grocery store before. During the slower hours, he would ask if she needed help with anything, which she didn’t. She went around tidying the registers, trying to ignore him because she couldn’t quite think of anything else for him to do. Mario always kept himself busy. She looked around to see if Mr. Kim was anywhere, but she didn’t see him, nor the owner, Mr. Park, at all for the rest of the day.

At the end of her shift, a Korean pear wrapped in its Styrofoam sleeve waited in her storage bin. She inhaled the dappled skin of the fruit, which smelled of fall, crisp and sweet. She cradled the pear in her two hands and, for a second, pressed it to her chest.

Mina had come out of the restroom and gone down the soft drinks aisle to pick something up for herself when she noticed Mr. Kim, who had seemed to be avoiding her, walking away toward the other end of the aisle. Finally she had the chance to ask him about Mario. For a second, she thought to proceed slowly; she didn’t want to run into him, but at the same time, she was tired of not knowing, and something about his avoidance pained her, made her question the items in her bin, and whether or not she had mistaken his politeness, his kind nature toward everyone for something else.

“Mr. Kim,” she called.

He turned around. His face was haggard, tired around the eyes.

She walked closer to him but stayed far enough away to not appear suspicious to anyone passing by.

“Is he sick?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Mario.”

“Oh. No, he . . .” He turned his head to see if anyone was coming from behind. “He got sent back. To Mexico.”

At that moment, she felt the distance between them—cold like the aluminum can in her hand. She had the sudden urge to throw it and break the cruel, fluorescent light.

“Why?” Her voice cracked as she fully realized what he meant. They would probably never see Mario again.

“I don’t know. I tried to . . . When I found out, I thought maybe I could send him some money for a lawyer.”

“How could he get sent back?”

“He didn’t have his papers. I don’t know.”

“Oh.” Her eyes dropped to the floor. Could Mr. Kim tell that she, too, didn’t have her papers, or at least not yet? Was it obvious to others? Or had Mario somehow gotten himself in trouble, and in the process been caught?

“His mother and his brother and sisters are still here. They all live together.”

“So, that’s it? He just gets taken away.”

“It’s happened before. I don’t know why, what triggered it.”

“But he’s been here all this time, right?”

“Yes. It doesn’t matter, though.”

“But . . . there has to be something. How could he disappear like that?”

“I spoke to his mom. That’s how I found out. He just didn’t show up, so I knew something was wrong. I think he was the only one supporting his family. His father had been killed going home one day. Shot out of nowhere.” Tears welled up in Mr. Kim’s eyes. “It’s not all right.”

“Is there anything we can do for them?”

“I’m not sure, but I think I’m going to start collecting some money.” Mr. Kim slipped a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. He had never given off any indication that he smoked before. “I went by last night with some groceries. There was a little baby, a couple girls, a boy. She has some family, I think. A church. But I’m gonna start collecting some money here. I haven’t told anyone else yet.”

“Okay, let me know,” she said. “I want to help.”

He tapped out a cigarette, holding it softly in his hand.

She wanted to hold that hand now.

ONE WEEK LATER OUTSIDE OF THE SUPERMARK ET, Mina wrapped her sweater around her body before climbing into the passenger seat of a large white van, which smelled of exhaust, damp cardboard, and overripe fruit. In the driver’s seat, Mr. Kim switched on the radio to a sudden blast of pop music. He flipped through different stations until he found some oldies—the Shirelles’ “Dedicated to the One I Love.” After turning onto the street, he eased into the steady flow of early Saturday night traffic, bopping his hand on the steering wheel and mouthing the words with the enthusiasm of someone younger, someone unharmed by life.

She smiled at this morsel of joy, despite the heaviness of their task. Swaying a little to the music, she stared out the window as they drove south through unfamiliar neighborhoods. She tried not to look at him. It made her nervous to sit so close to him. She could reach out and touch him, and no one would see. No one would know.

In front of a two-story apartment building, windows barred and cracks crawling up the stucco like vines, Mr. Kim unloaded the bags of donated food from the van and carried them to the top of the steps. He pressed one of the unit numbers on the intercom, and when a woman answered, he introduced himself. For a second, Mina wasn’t sure if she would open the door until a loud obnoxious buzz let them inside.

Mario’s mother stood in front of her apartment door like a woman accustomed to bad news. Her orangish blond hair, dark at the roots, had been pulled into a loose, high bun above a heavy face with vertical lines carved between her brows. Her black T-shirt was stretched at the neck, revealing fragile collarbones.

“Hola, Lupe,” Mr. Kim said. “Uh, tenemos comida, uh . . . fideos, leche, jugos . . . para ustedes.”

Lupe clapped her palms in response. She reached to help Mina with the bags, but Mina refused as Lupe guided them inside of her apartment. On the sunken couch sat three ebullient children of different ages glued to a Spanish-language game show on TV, erupting into squeals of laughter at every joke or wacky stunt. The oldest, a girl of about ten or eleven, held a baby with the downiest brown hair on her lap. The baby sputtered, and she wiped the baby’s mouth with a cloth.

Mina smiled thinking of her own daughter at that baby’s age—her pink face, the little closed eyes, the nose, the tiniest fingers and toes, the creamiest folds of skin, and that smell, that sweetest of smells, soft and powdery.