Lost

Rock remembered when the apartment at the top of his climb belonged to Frank Broyles, the former University of Arkansas football coach and athletic director since deceased. It was on a ridge that separated the school from Dickson Street, home to a dozen or more bars and restaurants within walking distance of the campus.
In those days, when Rock was a graduate student, he could simply walk around the complex, but on this nighttime trip, it had become the only portal he could find from the dark cliffs to the food and beer. With no other apparent option, he stepped onto a deck adjacent to the apartment that he hoped was uninhabited. He figured he might be able to kick in the back door or find a way through what looked like a kitchen window, but before his thought progressed further, a young woman stepped from the door. As he watched her turn his way, he worried that she would panic or scream when he came into view. Instead, her only discernable reaction was one of disinterest. She said hello and nothing more.
Rock told her he was lost. "I'm just trying to get home," he said.
She escorted him through the apartment toward the front door, past another woman who seemed as unmoved as the first.