Maria Ramirez

11:40 p.m., the third-floor hallway of a studio apartment building in a college neighborhood. The hallway motion-sensor light that's been flickering since last week finally died completely tonight, and from the stair landing a small lantern glow comes up, bobbing up and down. Through the wall comes the sound of someone typing, and from upstairs, intermittent footsteps. The owner of the light is Maria Ramirez from the first-floor management office. She's in a comfy vest and sneakers, one hand holding a plastic bag with two new light bulbs, a heavy black bag hanging from the other wrist. She's the kind of person who acts indifferent but takes care of everything for the tenants, from packages and recycling to broken boilers. About to head back down for a ladder, she stops in front of your room. She glances down at the desk-lamp light leaking from under the door, then knocks twice with the back of her hand.