Four in the morning. Code 3 for shortness of breath.
We’re in the courtyard of the complex looking for the right apartment. There’s a man standing at his open front door looking at us, and his daughter is running around. We walk up to his door, since why else would they be up and about at this ungodly hour if they didn’t call us?
“Not me. It’s up there.” He points to another apartment upstairs.
Nosy neighbors are a dime a dozen.