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There's a baggie burning a hole in her pocket and a bottle hanging loose in her hand as she moves from floor to floor of the Compound, trying to remember which room Santana had mentioned she was living in. It's not in her nature to write things down, and most of the time, she has a damn good memory without assistance from any outside aid, but she's pretty sure she'd been slightly drunk by the time they'd bumped into each other on Casino Night, and the time after that she'd only just finished sampling the joys of Bill Murray's ginormous hookah. So, really, she's two for two when it comes to reaching a certain level of intoxication around the other girl. Wichita would be hoping that she hasn't made that terrible of an impression - if she was the kind of girl who allowed herself to care that much.

"Fifth floor? It's the fifth floor," she declares, primarily to herself, and she's not above knocking on every door to find who she's looking for, but she doesn't think it'll come to that. Hopefully.

She takes a chance and guesses, lifting the hand that holds the bottle to thump it against the door itself by way of knocking, taking a step back to wait for the sound of movement from within. Idly, her free hand wanders into the back pocket of her jeans, fingertips brushing against the plastic bag there. She's even scored some rolling paper, but she's remembered to keep it in a pocket separate from her lighter. The last thing she needs is to burn a hole through a pretty decent score from the clothes box by being an idiot.

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"I'm not that high yet," is Santana's response. She treats Wichita to a pointed start and an arched brow, even as she pulls the bottle to her lips and knocks back a few swigs. Very briefly, she entertains the possibility that it's an entirely true story — maybe she is that high after all — but even after everything that has happened on Tabula Rasa during her time here, she remains skeptical. It's much easier for someone who hasn't been directly involved, except for that one time she was freak-of-nature levels of smart for a whole weekend.

"M'telling you, it's the truth," Wichita insists, reaching out to tug the bottle back from Santana and punctuating her declaration with a swig of her own. She gets the part where she and Columbus are probably one of few people who have come from a world like theirs, and if there are others, she hasn't had the fortune of meeting them yet. Zell is the closest she's come recently, at least. And Santana could be like any other girl she was friends with in high school, in the middle of a small Midwest town, before everything literally went to shit.

Santana stays silent, not because she has been rendered speehless but because she is waiting for the punchline. After what feels like a long stretch but may, to someone who isn't working up to a nice high, seem like only a minute or so, she sits up. In the faded light, it's hard to tell, but Wichita doesn't seem to be pulling her leg. Why would she? It's not even all that funny a joke. The expression she wears now isn't entirely suspicious, but not trusting either; what it is, is almost sympathetic. "So you're, you're one of those people who die and came here?"

"Dead? Oh, shit, no, nothing like that," Wichita assures her, immediately doing so to clear things up, although the truth isn't exactly better than what Santana's misunderstood. "Back home, there was this - I guess you could call it a virus. Kinda similar to mad cow, but it spread suddenly, and fast, and long story short, well - " Sighing, she takes one more swig from the bottle, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth when it gets a little messy. "Where I'm from, it was a special order of the end of the world, with a side of zombies."

For a moment, it appears as if Santana is going to speak, but it passes quickly and leaves her looking more confused than anything else. She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth as her jaw drops open further, wracking her brain for something to say. "Rough," is the most that she comes up with, because what the hell else is there to be said? 'Wow, that sucks for you. Sorry your world ended.' Actually, she has to wonder if it even all that bad, the zombie plague. She can't count on both hands the number of people she'd not mind having reason to bludgeon with a — well, with whatever works best for killing zombies.