On a muggy July evening, my aunt Shannon and I commenced our decades-old ritual of eating ice cream and people-watching in a New York City park.

We started the tradition over gelato in the Village and soft serve in Chelsea when I was a kid. Then we took some time off when Shannon moved away from New York. Now I was in my 40s and excited to host Shannon in my Brooklyn neighborhood for a pint of goat cheese and red cherry ice cream.

Her brown hair had gone mostly gray, but she had every bit of the energy and snappy wit I remembered. Together we discreetly monitored one family’s dinner plans and another couple’s quarrel until our eavesdropping was interrupted by a woman with a round face and slicked back, bleached blonde hair.

She appeared to be in her late 30s. She was wearing mostly black with a few nonthreatening silver studs on her sleeves. Dark sunglasses hid her eyes, and a large shopping bag with a designer logo hung from each hand, as she asked the question nobody wants to hear:

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but can I please use your phone?”

She spoke with a European accent — possibly Dutch.

“Where are you trying to go?” I asked, assuming she was lost and avoiding her question.

She set the bags down, gently stretched her fingers and produced a crinkled Google Maps printout, with a nearby address highlighted. I explained that the place she wanted to go — which she said was her brother-in-law’s apartment — was close, just on the other side of Fort Greene Park.

“I think I got off the bus too early,” she said with a hint of distress, as if she might get in trouble for arriving late. Then she asked again if she could use my phone, which created a weight in my gut. The request felt personal, as if she’d asked for something much greater than an electronic device — like my trust, or the temporary use of a kidney. But my flash assessment told me that she wasn’t a thief. I knew that navigating New York City could be daunting, and I wanted to help. So, feeling as if I had no choice, I dialed the number written on the map and handed over my phone.

“Hi!” she said in a smiley, drawn out tone.

I presumed that she was tired from shopping all day in Manhattan and anxious to relax at her brother-in-law’s apartment. There was a short pause while she listened. I imagined a composed, European Brooklynite on the other end of the call, looking out the window of his expensive brownstone while coffee brewed in a slick, glass apparatus. In my mind, he looked like a young Rutger Hauer, but not quite as tough.

“I’m in front of Peaches,” she said.

After a pause, she said it again, a bit loud: “Peaches.”

The third time, she practically yelled the name of the restaurant, solidifying that her brother-in-law was unfamiliar with this neighborhood landmark.

I motioned for the phone, figuring things might go easier if I spoke directly to him. She handed it to me, and I greeted him confidently, assuming he’d be happy that someone was helping his lost sister-in-law. Rutger Hauer, however, turned out to sound a bit more like Samuel Jackson.

In a brief, profanity-laced tirade, he expressed some irritation that she had apparently gotten off the bus at the wrong stop. He shouted at me with determination, every syllable of the utmost importance. I explained that I was just a stranger whom she had asked for directions.

When I asked if he lived on the north side of the park, his assault continued: “I don’t know what the north side of the park is. Who is this? Is this the bus driver?” After some more prodding on my part, he finally barked some useful coordinates that allowed me to end the call.

“I got so nervous when I got off the bus … I had a drink,” the woman confessed to Shannon. And I felt suddenly foolish for not having noticed that she was at least slightly drunk. When I gave her the directions to the address on her map, she seemed distracted, still looking at Shannon. And when I pointed her in the right direction, she picked up one bag to start walking the opposite way.

“Don’t forget this one,” Shannon said. She tried to pick up the second bag — only to be halted by its weight.

“Oh, my god, thank you!” the woman slurred.

She leaned in close to me and whispered, “I have a hundred-thousand dollars cash in these bags.” Her eyes widened, awaiting my impressed reaction. “I don’t look like a courier, do I?” she added in a lilting voice.

She left us and disappeared up the street. Shannon mentioned the woman’s two-thousand-dollar shoes and the serious weight of the bag she’d tried to pick up.

As our shared pint of goat cheese and cherry ice cream was turning into a puddle, Shannon and I attempted to analyze our bizarre encounter: Why had the woman taken a bus and not a taxi? Why didn’t she have a cellphone? Why did I let her use my phone? We laughed, writing it off as one of those New York experiences, but my mind was stuck on one thought: I was now the most recent point of contact.

I looked at the number I had dialed for her, which was from Boone, N.C. I imagined a meth lab hidden in the woods, run haplessly by the cast of “Deliverance.”

After 10 minutes, we agreed that the woman had arrived safely at her destination. Then, just as Shannon and I stood up, the persistent vibration of my phone rattled the metal park table. Above the number appeared the words I feared: Boone, N.C.

We stared at my phone as if it were a bomb that might detonate if either of us made a sudden move. Worst-case scenarios raced through my mind: What if the woman had taken off with the $100,000? What if someone had stolen the bags? What if she had hidden the money and said that I had stolen it? I envisioned her appearing at the edge of the park with some henchmen, pointing at me and shouting, “That’s him! That’s the guy who stole my bags!”

The optimistic part of me, though, imagined the opposite. Maybe he was calling to thank me — to say, “Hey, man, sorry I was a bit short with you earlier. It’s been a really stressful week. I just wanted to let you know that the drug money arrived safely, and we both appreciate your help.”

I walked Shannon to the subway, trying to hide the tension in my stomach. Then I powered down my phone to disable the location services. I felt vulnerable as I hung my head to keep a low profile on the normally breezy two-block walk to my apartment. At home I double-checked both locks and closed the blinds. I slept very little that night, bolting awake with each passing car and every distant siren.

Boone, N.C., never called again. As much as I want to say that, as a result of that incident, I’ll never let a stranger use my phone, that’s not the case. In New York, there’s a constant struggle between risk and reward, and it’s easy to either skeptically ignore or cynically refuse anyone who asks for anything. I’m used to it — most of us are. But maybe it’s better to have faith in people, even if it means a night of poor sleep, rattled nerves and melted ice cream.

Nabil Ayers is the author of the memoir “My Life in the Sunshine” and the president of the record label Beggars Group U.S.