“But it’s clean. It’s mine. And it’s safe. No one will bother you.” He pauses as if saying,not even me. “Now, don’t go getting no ideas. I’m not doing this outta charity. I’ll take it out of your pay. Weekly. Fair and square.”
I pick up the keys.
I have a place to stay.
He walks me there, whistling some bluesy tune under his breath.
The lot of the motel is cracked and half-filled. It’s by-the-hour, and it’s probably the nooner crowd.
A single vending machine hums in the corner, and the sign above the office just says: MOTEL. No name. Just fact.
“Room 3. Yours. End of the hall. The heater works but makes an infernal sound. Shower pressure’s temperamental.”
“I’ll be fine,” I assure him.
I unlock the door.
It’s...exactlywhat I expect.
The bedspread is threadbare but clean. The carpet is stained but vacuumed. The air smells like disinfectant and something faintly,very faintly,citrus.
There’s a tiny bathroom with a chipped mirror, a nightstand with a Gideon Bible, and a wrapped plastic cup on the sink.
Gratitude thrums in me.
Ricky leans against the doorframe, hands in his jacket pockets. “This okay?”
“Yes.”
“You look like you’re getting sick.”
“I’ll take a nap and be ready for work.”
“Come by at four. There’s always food in the kitchen, and you get all meals free.”
My eyes widen.
“No booze, though.”
I smile faintly. He plays tough, but he’s actually a decent guy.
“You good?” he asks.
“I’m alive.”
“Same difference.”
I agree.
He doesn’t leer. Doesn’t step inside the room. “You need anything—extra towels, cigarettes, bleach—you let me know.”
“Thanks.”
He nods once, then strolls off like a man who owns his small kingdom and knows precisely what it’s worth.
I shut the door, lean against it, and breathe.
The good people of Silverton cast me out. Called me a thief. Let me freeze.
