Admittedly, navigating my 10-year old Subaru, with its anti-W bumpersticker, down the heavily trafficked avenues of the city amidst massive SUVs and four-wheel drive trucks that proclaim their fidelity to God and corporate America via some combination of fish and flag, I do, upon occasion, feel out of place. Nevertheless, I am grateful for, and even to an extent embrace, the cultural and material luxuries available to me and my family in this oil-rich town.

To celebrate the first cool afternoon in October, after retrieving my son, Dylan, from his new Montessori school, I decide to treat us both to a walk in one of Houston's numerous parks. Consulting my map, we make our way to a vast green area, nearby our sublet, that houses the zoo and Museum of Natural Science, a reflecting pool and lake, a state-of-the-art playground, and a children's train that circles the park. Tumbling out of the car, we head first to the reflecting pool, so that Dylan can admire an impressive parade of ducks, wander past the lake, on which families and couples tool around in paddle boats, and stroll down a well-paved trail to our final destination, the playground.

In the course of our walk I observe, with some disdain, a pale young couple in their early twenties, lying in the grass. They are clad in black and decorated with tattoos. The man cradles the woman's head in his lap. Beside them a girl of five or six stands idly. The two seem not to notice her. Probably in need of a fix…I reflect, smugly and steer Dylan away from the spectacle, oddly reassured by the idea that even this affluent city has its share of troubles, its underclass.

At the playground Dylan climbs, slides and swings merrily for the better part of two hours. When he finally tires and I propose that we leave, he nods without resistance. "Bye bye playground!" he calls wistfully, taking my hand and moving with me back down the trail. As we near the parking lot, I notice that the same gothic couple is hovering by my car, apparently engaged in a heated discussion. Suddenly aware of my approach, the woman spins around to face me. "No, don't..." I hear her partner caution, clutching her arm. She shrugs him off and takes a step in our direction. "Please," she cries, in an anguished voice, "We need your help!" "Sorry," I say pulling Dylan to me and waving her away, as is my custom with beggars. "Our car was stolen," she continues, ignoring me. "We got to Houston yesterday and…" "Look," I interrupt, exasperated and sure I can top her, "I'm from New Orleans and I've nothing to give you." "I'm from New Orleans, too!" she squeals, manically, "St. Anne's and North Rampart!" I gaze at her, sickened. She and her family are now officially part of my world, my past—neighbors, compatriots. I want more intensely than ever to erase their image from my otherwise idyllic afternoon. In the same instant, I catch a glimpse of her daughter, cowering behind her father's knees, and suddenly recall the landlady who had knocked $100 off our monthly sublet, the school that had taken Dylan in for the semester, no questions asked, and the health club that had generously granted my husband and me a two-month membership for free. Reaching into my purse, I rifle through my wallet and produce a $10 bill. "Thanks," the woman grins, snatching the money. I turn quickly away and shuffle Dylan into his car seat, before climbing, ruefully, into my own. "That lady talking to you?" Dylan inquires, scooping up his sippy cup from a corner of the backseat. "Yes," I answer, turning the ignition and shifting into reverse. "They were from our city." Dylan eyes my face with interest, thankful, simply, to be drinking his juice.