As with all things, there are as many benefits to living in the Compound as there are inconveniences (for lack of a nastier, angrier word). It isn't enough for Santana to considering roughing it out in one of those huts without ready access to air conditioning and haircare products, but she will never be at peace with the fact that none of the rooms have doors. If ever she meets the entity whose grand idea it was to partition dorm rooms with curtains, it will not be a pretty confrontation. Presently, she will settle for venting her anger and frustrations on whatever — or whomever — is nearest, so when she hears a faint knock interrupt the otherwise quiet and still mood of the dormitory, she whips the curtain aside and bounds down the hall in search of a target.

Wichita lucks out by being one of the select few Santana would spare if she ever snapped and went on a killing spree. Or if she just threw a tantrum; words cut deep, especially the likes that she tends to fling around.

"That's a storage closet," she says, shaking her head. "Some genius thought rooms with doors would be unnecessary, so now we all have curtains. I think it's part of the conspiracy to drive us all crazy, like, stripping away our privacy is just the first step, you now?

Wait, what are you doing up here?"