Chapter 3 - The Highway Motel
The neon sign of the Crestview Motor Lodge buzzed and sputtered through the thin green curtains, casting a sickly chartreuse glow across the plaid bedspread. Outside, the steady roar of semi-trucks on the interstate filled the small room with a low, vibrating hum that made the water in the plastic bathroom cup tremble.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, running a dry washcloth over my arms, trying to scrub away the lingering smell of the pool house concrete. My skin was red and raw in places. On the bedside table sat a paper bag containing two stale ham sandwiches and a carton of milk we'd bought from the vending machine outside the office.
Maya was lying on the opposite bed, staring up at the popcorn ceiling where the shadows of passing headlights traced long, slow arcs. She hadn't spoken since we climbed into the rusted Honda Civic I had borrowed from the diner three miles down the road—using the emergency cash I’d managed to stash behind the laundry room water heater months before things got truly bad.
"Mom?" she said quietly, her voice swallowed by the sound of a passing diesel rig.
"I'm here," I said, dropping the washcloth into the sink and walking back to sit on the edge of the mattress beside her.
"Are we going back?"
"No."
"Will he find us here?"
I looked at the heavy deadbolt on the motel door. It was made of cheap brass, the kind that could be kicked in with a single hard boot if someone really wanted inside. But it was ours. There was no padlock on the outside. No key held in a fist across a manicured lawn.
"He won't find us," I said, smoothing her long brown hair back from her forehead. "And even if he tries, we aren't alone anymore."
May you like
Maya turned on her side, pressing her face into my arm, her breathing finally slowing down into the rhythm of sleep. I stayed awake, sitting straight in the dark green light of the neon sign, watching the shadow of the door handle and waiting for the sun to come up over the highway.
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