My wife's younger sister, Kana, keeps 38 strips of masking tape on the inside of her kitchen cabinet door. Each one has a name on it. Written in marker. Some are smudged. One has a little cartoon heart. She has moved them across the Pacific Ocean. She will never throw them away. Three years ago, Kana and her husband moved to a quiet street outside Fort Worth, Texas, for his job. She knew no one. Her English was careful and small. For four months, the neighbors waved. She waved back. That was all. Then her son Haru was born nine weeks early. Two pounds, eleven ounces. Six weeks in the NICU. Her husband had to keep working. Every day, Kana drove 40 minutes each way to sit beside a plastic box and watch her son breathe. Every night, she came home to an empty kitchen and ate crackers standing up. In Japan, when someone is struggling, we send a polite card. We say, "Please tell me if there is anything I can do." And then we wait, very respectfully, to be asked. On the third day, there was a knock. It was Carol, from across the street. Sixty-something. Reading glasses on her head. A casserole dish in one hand, a clipboard in the other. She didn't ask what Kana needed. She said, "Okay, hon. Dinner's covered for six weeks. You just go love that baby." Every dish that came had a strip of masking tape on the lid, with a name on it. So she'd know who to give it back to. She kept every single one. CAROL Chicken spaghetti. "350 for 30 min. You don't have to return the dish." (I returned the dish. It came back full. I returned it again. It came back full again. This continued for two years. I never won.) MIKE A rotisserie chicken from the grocery store, still warm in the plastic bag. And a box of diapers in the wrong size. The tape said: "I can't cook. Sorry." (Mike, you did so well.) THE HENDERSONS (ALL 5 OF US) Lasagna. And a note in crayon from their youngest: "WE PRAYD FOR YOUR BABY. WHAT IS HIS NAME." (I wrote back, "Haru." The next week, their dish came with a card. "HI HARU. GET BIG.") DEBBIE Frito pie. (I did not know you could pour chili into a bag of chips. Now I know. I can never unknow it. I make it in Japan now. My husband's coworkers are afraid.) DARRELL This tape was not on a dish. It was stuck to the front door. "Mowed your yard. Don't worry about it." (I never once saw Darrell mow. For six weeks, my grass was perfect.) BARB This one came from the clipboard Carol left on the porch. A sign-up sheet. Not for food. "TUES 2–4. I'll hold the baby so Mama can sleep. — Barb" (When Haru came home, Barb came every Tuesday. I slept two hours. I woke up and Barb was singing to him. A song about a yellow rose. I cried in the hallway so she wouldn't see.) And then there is the one with the shaky handwriting. DOROTHY (89) A pound cake. Dorothy didn't drive anymore. Her grandson brought her. She came up the walk with a walker and the cake balanced on the seat. It took her a long time. She would not let anyone carry it. At the door, she said: "I've baked a cake for every new baby on this street since 1961. I wasn't about to skip yours." Kana couldn't speak. At the end of the six weeks, she found Carol in her front yard. She tried to say it properly, the way we're taught. "I don't know how I can ever repay you. I'm a stranger. I'm not even American." Carol took off her reading glasses. "Honey. You live on Pecan Street. That makes you ours." Kana moved back to Japan last year. The tape went with her. Thirty-eight names, in a little row, on the inside of a cabinet door in a kitchen in Tokyo. Haru is three now. Every morning, when his mom reaches for the cups, he points at the tape and says the names out loud. Carol. Mike. Darrell. Barb. Dorothy. He has never met a single one of them. He thinks they're his family. He's not wrong. America, I think you're tired. I think you've been told for a long time that you've stopped being good neighbors. Then explain the masking tape. When somebody's baby comes too early, you don't ask what you can do. You preheat the oven. You write your name on a piece of tape so they'll know who to give the dish back to. And then you tell them not to give it back. People say "Love thy neighbor" like it's something written in a book. It is. It's also written on masking tape. In marker. On a hundred thousand casserole lids. Tonight. Right now. On some street in your country, someone's oven is on for a stranger. You never stopped. A little boy in Tokyo knows your names.