"I've been better" is quite the understatement. Playing with fire is much more like it.

"You should go out and look in the hall," Brent said right after walking through the door, startling me out of my doze on the couch.

"What? What time is it?" I asked sleepily, eyeing the glowing numbers on the VCR. "4:37? Does that say 4:37?"

"Yeah," he said, matter-of-factly.

"Boys night must have been some night," I said, stretching and yawning, and flicking off the glowing TV I fell asleep in front of. "Did you have fun?"

"Yeah, but, I don't know what to do. You should seriously go look in the hall," Brent replied.

"Why? What are you talking about?" I said, slipping on my flip-flops and peering out into the hall. Not seeing anything, I started to walk down the hall and around the corner toward the elevator... and stopped.

Lying on her side horizontal to an apartment door was a woman. Completely. Passed. Out. Her short, black skirt was flung up over her tight, black shirt and the entire contents of her purse were splayed all around her.

"Oh man," I muttered, going over to the woman to make sure she was breathing.

"Wake up," I said, rubbing the woman's arm repeatedly from her shoulder to her elbow. "Can you hear me? Can you wake up for me?"

"Huh?" she said, her eyelids fluttering.

"Can you hear me?" I ask. "Can you get up for me?"

"Do I have to?" she mumbles.

"Well, you're lying in a hallway," I say matter-of-factly. "You should get up. Do you live here?"

"Yeah," she replies, trying to sit up.

"Let me help you," I say, gathering up her lipstick, credit card, and driver's license that spilled all over the hallway when she apparently fell and passed out. After peering at her driver's license, I notice that the address doesn't match our apartment building.

"You do live here?" I ask. "What apartment number?"

"[###]," she says, which was the door we were standing outside. It's then that I notice the keys dangling from the lock.

"OK, let me help you get inside," I said.

"Thank you," she whispers.

But after messing with the lock for a bit, I can't get it open. Thinking that maybe she has the wrong apartment number, I look at her trying to balance in her black high heels and keep her eyes open and suggest we go downstairs to talk to the doorman.

"OK," she says, and I lead us to the elevator.

"Do you know her?" I discreetly ask the doorman, Charley, when we make it downstairs.

"Yeah, she's in [###]," he says.

"Can you help us get her in her apartment?" I ask. After grabbing an extra set of keys, he asks her how she's doing, and she responds: "I've been better." That's an understatement.

After we get the door open, usher her inside, and tell her to lock the door, she looks back and again whispers "thank you" before gingerly closing the door.

"Thanks for your help, Charley," I said. "I'm just glad to know she's safe."

"Yeah, me too," he said. "When I saw her stumble in awhile ago, I asked her if she wanted me to help her get into her apartment, like I always do, and she said no, so what was I supposed to do? I can't force help on her."

"You mean she does this a lot?" I ask.

"Well, it is Friday night and people like to go out on the weekends," he replied vaguely.

"I hope she wasn't lying in the hallway for a long time," I said.

"It was at least an hour and a half," he replied. "Before she stumbled into the building, I saw her coming toward the door by herself when she was stopped by a really shady guy who was trying to get her into his car. I had to run outside, grab her, and say, 'she's with me. Get outta here.'"

"Wow," I said, thinking. "That's just scary. But it's comforting to know that you guys are watching out for us. Thanks, Charley."

"Anytime, Erika," he said. "You don't even have to ask."