They pull up to José’s apartment at two in the morning. There’s a rare thunderstorm menacing the city. The palm trees are blowing sideways, the waves are crashing down with unusual violence, and all the homeless people are tucked away in their tents as the rain fills the gutters and floods the streets. If anyone’s staking this place out, tonight’s the perfect night to sneak in. With Roger’s coat draped over them both, they hobble over to the front door. José’s key still works. They pass the empty front desk and take the elevator up. When they reach the fifth floor, José’s confused about his apartment number. Was it 513 or 531? Waking someone up in the middle of the night is the last thing he needs right now. Panicked, he glances back and forth at the two arrows on the wall: <- 501-515, 516-530 ->.
“Which one is it?” asks Roger, smelling something funky.
“I don’t know, I forgot! Oh God I’ve got them mixed up, I’m sorry Roger––”
“You don’t remember your number?”
“It’s either 513 or 531 but we can’t just go trying people’s doors! We’re stuck! I’m so sorry––”
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