Del takes a deep breath, moves over to the dresser, then slides a grungy, ain't-worth-nothing Timex over his bony wrist. It isn't long before he sees what she's laid out for him next to the watch.

"What the – ?"

He holds up photos, picks them up as a bunch, flips through them. A woman and two young girls at a Sears portfolio special. The same kids on the playground. The woman at someone's wedding.

"I found those in your car," Miriam explains. "Your family, right? I thought it kind of interesting, what with you bringing a prostitute – er, supposed prostitute – back to a motel room. Doesn't seem like the kind of thing a good husband or daddy would do, but what do I know? Then again, maybe that's why you hide them all the way in the glove compartment. It's like a mirror – if you can't see them, they can't see you."

He pivots, heel to toe, the wallet photos in a quaking grip.

"Who are you to judge?" he seethes.

She waves him off. "Oh, hush, I'm not judging. I'm just waiting. Since we're waiting, I should probably also tell you that I've been following you for a couple weeks now." His gaze narrows again, and he's looking at her like maybe he recognizes her, or is trying to. She keeps talking. "I know you like hookers. Pros and hos. All kinds, too! You're the kind of fellow who'll eat every candy out of the chocolate box. Variety is the spice of life, good for you. I also happen to know that, outside of some relatively boring sexual proclivities, you like to hit women. Four prostitutes. Two with black eyes, one with a cut chin, the fourth with a busted lower lip–"

Del moves fast.

Bam. A tight coiled fist hits her right in the eye and knocks her back on the bed. Capillaries burst. Fireworks on a black background. Gasping, she scrambles backward, thinking he's going to advance and try to beat her or choke her, but by the time she's in a crouch and ready to kick, bite, or collapse his throat with a forearm, she sees he hasn't moved one inch.

He's just standing there. Shaking. Angry, sad, confused; she can't tell.

She waits it out. He doesn't move toward her. He isn't even looking at her now – Del's staring off at a nowhere point a thousand miles from here.

Gingerly, Miriam reaches over to the nightstand and turns the alarm clock so she can read it. It's an old-ass clock, the kind with the numbers that turn like Vanna White's flipping them. Each with a click.

"It's 12.40," she says. "That means you have three minutes."

"Three minutes?" He narrows his gaze, trying to suss out her game.

"That's right, Del, three minutes. Now's the time to ask yourself: Any thoughts you want to share? Grandma's cornbread recipe? Location of a buried pirate treasure? Any poetic last words? You know, either the wallpaper goes, or I do?" She waves him off. "I know, an Oscar Wilde reference. I reached too far for that one. My bad."