The van was empty except for me, my purple JanSport at my feet, and the jumble of music equipment in the back. I opened the door and was startled by the cold. I could see my breath leaving me, and I walked to the motel shaped like a big capital L, chalk-white in the darkness. The calm desert air still held the scent of recent rain. Paul and Zoe were both by the office, which was just a scratched-up bulletproof window cut into the shorter outgrowth of the building. The longer side brimmed with white, numbered doors and cars parked before them. Zoe smoked and Paul stooped argumentatively.
There’s no way you’re all full up, Paul said to the glass, which was covered in scratches that reflected the light of the streetlamp, obscuring the face of the person inside. What, is this a hot tourist destination? Where the hell are we, anyway?
