On Friday night I arrived home to some neighbors socializing on the stoop and a motionless body lying in the street.

   The former hadn’t seen the latter. “Hey, there’s a guy face down in the sidewalk.” One girl hurried over.

   “See if he’s breathing,” she said. More people circled around.

   “Hey, buddy?” The girl nudged the guy, a twentysomething kid in typical college garb. He didn’t budge. “Hey! You OK?” 

   Gingerly, we rolled him onto his side. His chest was moving.

   “Mmmph.” Relief. He was drunk.

   The girl who was first to arrive bent down to check his pulse. Startled by something, she looked up, looked the man over again and laughed.

   Then: “Mike?”