I could hear Jack across the room, his breathing slowing, hitting the rhythm of sleep. Or so I thought until a half hour passed and, without a hitch in that steady breathing, his polyester comforter whispered, pushed back. A crackle of joints. A soft sigh. The muffled thump of his feet hitting the carpet. I feigned sleep and listened to his footfalls as they rounded his bed, then paused at the end of mine.

I peeked just enough to see his faint silhouette in the near-dark room. It hovered there, at the foot of the bed, then moved on to the bathroom. The creak of the door shutting. The click of the light—turned on only after the door was closed, always considerate. I lay on my side, watching that glowing rectangle under the bathroom door. The toilet flushed. His feet passed through the rectangle. The gurgle of water finding its way up the pipes. Then the light went out, door opened.

He started past my bed, hesitated and came back, walking up to the side. As I lay there, eyes shut, I could hear him breathing, only feet away. Watching me. I knew this should concern me—a man standing by my bedside when I’m supposed to be asleep—but I didn’t feel concern. Couldn’t. Just lay there and listened to him breathing.

A catch in the rhythm, then the muffled sound of footsteps as he moved closer. I cracked open my eyes to see him bending over, still keeping a respectable distance, but getting a closer look.

“I’m not asleep,” I said.

The sound of my voice didn’t seem to startle him. He just grunted, “Yeah. Thought so. Wasn’t sure.”

I opened my eyes to see the outline of his face, one strip—from eye to chin—illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the crack between the curtains.

“Can’t sleep, either?” I said.

“Nah. Too…busy.”

He went quiet again, just standing there, so still that even that strip of moonlight over his face didn’t budge. After a moment, he said, “You wanna go out?”

“You need a cigarette?”

He shook his head. “Just…out. Somewhere.”

I rose on my elbows and yawned. “Probably not a bad plan. As for where, at this hour, that could be a problem.”

“Got an idea.”

He left it at that. When I nodded, he grabbed his bag and headed for the washroom, telling me to call when I was dressed.

We drove in silence, the lights of the city soon fading behind us. I recognized the route as the one we’d taken into Chicago, but knew we couldn’t be leaving, not with our bags still at the motel.