Alice’s studio apartment was tucked away inside a brutalist concrete complex in Brooklyn’s South Slope. She landed the police Hopper on the roof, trash and black plastic bags whirling around her. She entered the old concrete stairwell and descended to her floor. The green paint of her battered metal door revealed a riot of ancient colors beneath. Taped to the door was a copy of the medical questionnaire with an official seal; she tore it off and looked for her key. On either side, additional steel doors segregated the bare concrete corridor. She shivered, cold to her bones.