I did not want to go back to my car, but the hospital was closing its main doors.

The hallway of my third-floor apartment building smelled of cabbage and old carpet.

When I first moved here, I had spent thirty-two dollars on security locks, installing them myself with a borrowed drill to ensure no one could enter without my knowledge.

As I reached the top of the stairs, I heard the high-pitched, rhythmic chirp of a dying battery.

Greg, my neighbor from thirty-two, was standing in his doorway with a plastic step stool.